Bunny Call

by Scott Cawthon

  Bob winced and turned back to the food. He hated clowns.

  “Doesn’t it smell good?” Wanda gestured at the platters of potato salad, bean salad, macaroni salad, pasta salad, green salad, deviled eggs, raw veggies and dip, chips and dip, baked beans, and various casseroles that were covering the picnic tables.

  “Honestly? All I can smell is burnt hot dogs,” Bob said.

  A barbecue was set up halfway between the food tables and the lodge. From the charred smells and the flames belching into the air far too high for safety, Bob wasn’t sure the “chef”—a skinny camp employee with a narrow, flushed face—knew what he was doing.

  Wanda wrinkled her nose. “The hot dogs are why I encouraged Cindy to get her face painted. But really, can’t you smell the dill in this salad? And the thyme in this one? Give them a chance.”

  “Woof,” Bob said before dutifully sniffing the salads. He still couldn’t smell anything except overcooked barbecue.

  Wanda giggled. “Come on. You’re holding up the line.”

  Bob sighed and started dishing up the salads. While he piled food on his plate, he tried not to dread the inevitable scene that would unfold when Cindy realized there were hot dogs being consumed all around her.

  Cindy thought hot dogs were “cru,” i.e., cruel. “Can’t eat doggies!” Cindy had protested the first time hot dogs were presented to her. No manner of explanation convinced her that the term “hot dog” was not precisely descriptive of what she was eating.

  “Bob?” Wanda gave him a gentle shove. “Honey, whatever you’re thinking about you can think about later. Come on.” Wanda led him to a long picnic table filled with laughing couples.

  “Are these seats taken?” Wanda asked one of the couples.

  “No, they’re all yours,” a large, boisterous woman with big hair and a mouth to match sang out. “Pull up a bench!” She laughed as if she’d just said the funniest thing in the world. Her laugh was a high-pitched trill that sounded like a bird’s mating call.

  Her husband, a small, sandy-haired man with sunburned ears, glanced up and offered an unconvincing replica of a smile. Bob matched it with his own social tooth-baring. Wanda plopped down on the bench and scooted in to make room for Bob.

  “I’m Darlene,” the large woman said. “And this is Frank.” She pointed at the guy with the sunburned ears.

  Frank lifted a fork, then returned to eating.

  “Don’t mind him,” Darlene said. “When he gets food in front of him, he forgets how to talk. Eats like a horse, my Frank, and look at him. It’s not fair. I eat a carrot, and I gain a pound.”

  Bob had no idea what to say to that, so he let Wanda handle it. He heard her say something sympathetic while he put his attention to his food.

  The bench was hard and narrow, and it hurt his butt. He shifted, and he whacked his knee on the picnic table frame. He shifted again, and a splinter the size of a small knife jabbed him in the thigh. A pair of flies dive-bombed his plate, and he shooed them away.

  This was supposed to be fun?

  He stabbed a chunk of potato and stuffed it in his mouth. It wasn’t cooked all the way through. He hated crunchy potatoes in potato salad. He made a face as he chewed, wishing he could spit it out, wishing he could spit out this whole miserable experience.

  While Bob ate, an animated conversation about camp activities began. Everyone at the table offered an opinion about what was going to be the most fun thing to do at Camp Etenia. Even Frank, who had finished eating, joined in with apparent glee when he talked about the tennis tournament that would start the next day. When Wanda piped up to tell everyone that their whole family was competing in a capture the flag competition the next day, Bob almost groaned out loud. He’d forgotten he’d agreed to that. The very thought of running around the woods trying to grab a piece of cloth made his teeth hurt. Bob had hoped that after the picnic, he could spend the rest of the day sitting in a deck chair, but he was reminded why he rarely bothered being optimistic. The picnic ended at six, and Wanda informed him that their family was signed up for team competitions from six to nine—in darts, horseshoes, and the card game Hand and Foot. After that, there would be a big campfire and marshmallow roast.

  “It’s going to be great fun,” Wanda chirped a little later as she cleaned up the ketchup smeared on Cindy’s face.

  Predictably, Bob’s family finished last in darts and horseshoes, and seventh in the Hand and Foot tournament, but Tyler was the only one who had a problem with that. Luckily, his disappointment didn’t last long. Tyler was like his mom; he didn’t dwell on what he couldn’t change. He just moved on to the next possibility around the corner.

  “That’s what life is all about, Bob,” Wanda always told him. “Possibility. Every day is filled with possibility. You just have to look for it.”

  Bob had thought this was adorable for the first few years he was with Wanda. Now it was grating on him … maybe because he wasn’t seeing a lot of possibilities that pleased him.

  This one, for instance, wasn’t high on his “good times” list.

  The evening’s campfire was a massive conflagration expelling smoke that hung in choking swirls over the entire lawn and beach. Bob’s eyes burned, and his throat felt raw.

  “Look at the big fire, Daddy!” Cindy said, tugging on his hand so they could move closer.

  Bob had instinctively grabbed Cindy’s hand as soon as he’d seen the fire. She loved bright things, and he knew she’d make a beeline for it, which she did.

  “Fire’s hot, sweetie,” he said. “We’ll look at it from over here.” He tried leading her to a pair of lawn chairs well away from the flames, but she was having none of it.

  “No! Fire! Roost smallows!” Cindy demanded.

  Wanda took Cindy’s other hand. “I’ll take her. You go sit.”

  Bob let go of Cindy’s hand. “Thanks.”

  Wanda blew him a kiss and trotted with Cindy toward the marshmallows and crackling fire. Bob turned toward the lawn chairs, but of course they were all taken now. He scanned the area for a place to sit. Sighing, he went toward one of the logs set up around the campfire and awkwardly perched on the curved edge.

  A mosquito immediately appeared and landed on his knee. He smacked his knee and killed the mosquito. “I thought you guys didn’t like smoke,” he said to the dead bug.

  “I think they get used to it,” a balding man with a big gut said as he dropped onto the log next to Bob. “Maybe they build up a tolerance in places like this.” His voice was deep and smooth. He could have been a radio personality.

  “Think so?” Bob said noncommittally. He held out his hand. “Bob Mackenzie.”

  “Steven Bell.” The man shook Bob’s hand. “Actually,” he said, “I think my theory’s full of it. Mosquitoes don’t live long enough to build up a tolerance. Did you know that the average female mosquito lives about fifty days and the average male lives about ten days?”

  “Figures,” Bob said. “The females and the babies never leave them alone.”

  Steven laughed. “You got that right.” He gestured toward a pair of very pretty blonde girls Bob guessed were thirteen or fourteen. The girls were flirting with a couple teen boys wearing pants so baggy they were about to fall off. “Or they worry themselves to death. Those two girls are mine.” The guy shook his head. “I don’t sleep much.”

  Bob nodded. “I can see why.”

  “You have girls?”

  “One. She’s just three. Two boys, too.”

  “Fatherhood’s not for the faint of heart,” Steven said. “But it’s a heck of a lot of fun.”

  Bob offered a socially acceptable nod that didn’t represent at all what he was thinking.

  It was nearly 11:00 p.m. by the time the whole family was back in the cabin and the kids were ready for bed. The boys said good night and fell into their twin beds, asleep almost the second they hit the mattresses. Their snores began vibrating the exposed ceiling beams immediately.

  Cindy, on the other hand, wa
s wound up. Wearing one of the cabin’s extra quilts as a cape, she was dancing around the place shouting, “I’m a princess!”

  “If you’re a princess, where’s your crown?” Bob asked.

  “Oh, now you’ve done it, Bob,” Wanda said.

  And sure enough, Cindy started crying because she didn’t have a crown.

  “Oops,” Bob said.

  It took Wanda several minutes to convince Cindy they could make her a princess crown during crafting time the next day. In the meantime, Cindy had an invisible crown.

  “Okay,” Cindy finally said.

  Wanda and Bob sighed in relief.

  Cindy still wasn’t ready to go to sleep. “Story!” she begged, crawling into Bob’s lap.

  Bob sat with his back against the metal frame of the double daybed. He was pretty sure the frame, in a previous life, had been a medieval torture device. It managed to attack both his spine and his kidneys at the same time.

  Bob wrapped his arms around Cindy and tried not to inhale her smoky scent. Normally Cindy smelled like strawberries and vanilla at night—the strawberry scent was from her shampoo and the vanilla was from the warm vanilla almond milk she liked to drink before bed. Wanda decided to skip the kids’ bath time tonight because the day had been so long, and Cindy was already feeling “bloopy” from too many “smallows” to make room for her usual before-bed treat.

  Bob watched Wanda open the window on the far side of the cabin. She was fanatical about having fresh air in the evening, no matter how cold it was outside. At least it wasn’t that frigid tonight.

  Wanda crossed the cabin, pulled back the covers, and slid in next to Bob. She looked at her daughter. “Okay, what story are we doing tonight?” she asked Cindy.

  This was the routine. Bob held his daughter, and Wanda told the story. Bob could design and even build houses, but he couldn’t put together a story to save his life. Wanda was the storyteller.

  “Catpiller!” Cindy shrieked pretty much right into Bob’s ear.

  He cringed but didn’t push her away.

  “Okay.” Wanda leaned over and kissed the top of Cindy’s head. She sneezed, then nestled close to Bob, laying her head on his shoulder. From there, she began to tell a convoluted story about a caterpillar who built his cocoon all wrong and had to redo it so he could become a butterfly. At one point, Bob was tempted to insert a couple architectural details regarding the building process, but he wisely remained silent.

  At the beginning of Wanda’s story, Cindy kept piping up with her opinion about how things should go. Every time she did, she squirmed and ended up elbowing Bob in some sensitive area of his anatomy. It was like trying to cuddle with a small kangaroo. Bob wasn’t a huge fan of the experience. But about five minutes in, she closed her eyes and her body went limp.

  This was the part of the night Bob did like. In fact, he pretty much loved it. When Cindy relaxed, her sweet toddler pudge filled Bob’s arms with pillowy, warm softness, and then holding her was one of the most sweet and comforting things in the world. Sometimes it was so comforting he forgot who he was and what he had to do the next day. He forgot to be overwhelmed and angry and resentful. It took him back to his childhood, to memories of snuggling his well-worn teddy bear.

  “Earplugs,” Wanda whispered, holding them out.

  Bob took the earplugs and gently inserted them in Cindy’s ears while Wanda took care of her own. She gave Bob a kiss on the cheek, put on her sleep mask, and said, “Good night,” as she curled onto her side next to him.

  Wanda and Cindy started to snore almost simultaneously. Cindy’s first whirring blat landed in the same ear she’d shrieked into a few moments before. This time, Bob shifted Cindy in his arms. But he didn’t immediately transfer her to the trundle bed. He just sat there, holding his daughter and listening to his family’s rumbling snores.

  Beyond the snores, the noises of the nighttime forest reached out to Bob’s senses; that, combined with the tender sweetness of his family snuggling close, eased the remaining tension in his body. Nighttime in the forest was actually one of the things he’d been okay with about this trip. He remembered lying in his sleeping bag next to his dad, under the stars, listening to the crickets. Ever since then, nature’s night sounds had soothed him. Bob tried to hear the crickets now, but all he could hear were Cindy’s little popping splert, splert, fllllbbs in his ear. That was okay, too.

  Wait. Was that an owl?

  Bob listened hard. Yes, an owl hooted not too far from the cabin.

  Bob’s dad, a nature and animal lover, was interested in animal symbolism. He’d taught Bob that owls were often seen as harbingers of death, but they could also be portents of renewal and rebirth. What message did this owl have for Bob?

  Bob didn’t know, but he did know that for these cherished moments holding Cindy, he could convince himself that he had good things in his life. He could talk himself into the “all is well” mentality Wanda lived out every day.

  Suddenly, Bob stiffened. The image of an orange bunny with a white-and-black checked vest flitted through his mind.

  Ralpho!

  “Oh man,” Bob whispered. How could he have signed up his family for such a cruel prank? It was probably going to traumatize Cindy for life.

  Listening to the snoring concert going on around him, Bob thought about how upset his wife and kids always were when they were awakened abruptly. Doing that on purpose wasn’t the nicest thing in the world. No, tell the truth, Bob, he berated himself. The truth was that signing up his family for the Bunny Call was “cru.”

  What had he been thinking?

  He’d been thinking about himself.

  Now he thought about his peacefully sleeping wife and kids. However put upon he might feel on this trip, taking it out on them wasn’t justice at all. It was selfish and childish.

  He sighed. Well, it was too late now.

  Hopefully, the Bunny Call wouldn’t be so bad.

  Bob inched away from his wife and carefully placed Cindy in the trundle bed. Then he put in his own earplugs and lay back on his pillow. In spite of his exhaustion, he lay there a long time before he fell asleep.

  Bob sat up in bed and clawed at his earplugs. Digging them frantically from his ears, he felt his heart hammer against his rib cage like it was desperate to get out. Sweat glued his gray T-shirt and boxer shorts to his body.

  What in the world?

  Usually, Bob didn’t sleep all that well, but he wasn’t prone to panic attacks or night sweats. So what woke him up?

  He looked around the cabin. Was everything okay?

  It seemed to be. His wife and kids were snoring in a strangely endearing harmony of buzzing and honking tones. The doors were closed, but through the open window he could still hear the peaceful sounds to which he’d fallen asleep. Nothing appeared to be amiss.

  Bob tried to calm his breathing, but it wouldn’t slow down. He concentrated to try and remember what he’d been dreaming before he—

  Ralpho.

  That was what he’d been dreaming about. He’d been dreaming about Ralpho. Obviously his guilt had followed him into his sleep.

  Bob took a deep breath and got out of bed. He grabbed the penlight on his key ring.

  Bob used his penlight to find safe passage past the end of the trundle bed and then a few feet across the floor to the bathroom. There, he closed the door and turned on the light over the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror. Still the same Bob. Or was he? This Bob looked a little feral. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair stuck out. His mouth was stretched into a wide grimace. This Bob looked like he’d made a deal with the devil. Had he?

  Bob snorted and shook his head. He noticed his eyebrows were getting too bushy. In the last year or so, Bob had started losing hair on top of his head, and he’d started growing hair where he didn’t want any extra. How was that fair? Or forget fair. What purpose did it serve?

  Leaning over the sink, Bob ran cool water and splashed his face. While his family continued to snore, he tho
ught about Ralpho again. He looked at his watch. It was 11:50 p.m. He’d barely slept before he woke up. This did not bode well for a good night’s sleep.

  Just over five hours before Ralpho would show up. Could Bob call it off? If he could, how would he do it?

  Were the camp counselors available during the night? Yes, he remembered. The cabins had no phones, and Camp Etenia had no cell phone coverage. But an idle flip through the rulebook had revealed that every cabin was equipped with a large bell you could use to signal for help in case of an emergency.

  Bob didn’t think this was a bell-ringing emergency. In fact, he was pretty sure if he rang a bell to cancel the Bunny Call, they’d kick him out of the camp.

  … then again.

  Bob shook his head. He wasn’t going to humiliate his family by ringing an emergency bell to cancel a prank, even if it might get him out of this so-called vacation. Besides, if he did that, they’d know what he’d set up.

  Bob leaned over the sink again and slurped some water. Straightening and wiping his mouth, he decided he was making way too much out of a silly prank. Ralpho was just some kid in a rabbit suit, right? All Ralpho would do was scare the kids a little, probably annoy his wife, and that would be that. No big deal. Wasn’t part of parenting getting his kids ready for the big, bad world? If they could be undone by a noisy orange rabbit, how did they have any hope of surviving real-world battles, like those Bob faced every day?

  Bob nodded at himself in the mirror and turned off the bathroom light. He’d convinced himself that the Bunny Call would be good for his kids. Bob was doing his kids a favor.

  And Wanda?

  Well, Wanda was a big girl. She could handle it. And if not, well, she did drag him to this absurd place. A little payback wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?

  Bob nodded again and headed back to bed.

  Bob lay on his side in the dark. How much time had passed since the last time he checked? He pressed the button on the side of his watch, and the tiny light revealed digital numbers informing him a mere nineteen minutes had passed since he’d last compulsively checked the time.