Page 60 of Prayers for the Prickly

“I can’t believe how much there still is left to do,” I said several minutes later, as I gazed around the room. I’d wolfed down the first sandwich, so it was nice to be able to take my time and enjoy the last one.

“It’s been a lot of changes in a really short amount of time,” Pops pointed out.

“And still a bunch more to come.”

“Don’t you forget it, either,” Uncle Atlas said. “Are you ready for them all?”

“No.”

“Right answer,” Pops said.

“We’ll figure it out along the way, or you’ll get woken in the middle of the night and hammered with questions,” I told him.

“Why me and not your mom?”

“Because she can sleep through everything now that us kids are grown, while you lie wake going over maps of the fishing grounds in your head trying to decide where to steer the boat when you head out in the morning.”

He chuckled at that, nodded, and peeled the wrapper off another section of his meatball sub.

“Just remember, kid, you are going to fuck up and you are going to feel horrible about it,” Uncle Atlas said. “When that happens, don’t try to hide how much it upsets you that you messed up. Let them see that shit, so they grow up understanding that grown-ups make mistakes, too. Kids try to be little miniature versions of us, but it’s more like the cartoon superhero version where everything turns out the way it’s supposed to because we do such an amazing job of hiding our struggles. Just never be fake, always own it when you fuck up, ‘cause that will make it easier for them to, and always keep in mind that when they start asking to speak to August about whatever is going on, that’s the equivalent of them going to management.”

I doubled over laughing at that, but I could see it, too. In my head, I pictured a little girl with spiky brown hair sticking up everywhere as she stalked through the house dragging a large stuffed critter and her blanket, looking for August after I’d upset her somehow.

“Never forget the power of one whelp determined to do something you told them not to do,” Uncle Atlas said. “They will lie awake at night dreaming of ways to go around you so they don’t get caught, while you’re in bed snoring, exhausted after a day spent thwarting plans to row out to Crow Island in an old dingy.”

He eyed me when he said it, because I’d been in on those plans, along with my cousins Ross and Petyr. We’d hatched them up over a weekend sleepover, but we kept getting caught every time we tried to sneak out. It had taken years before we’d been allowed to row over alone. Sadly, what we discovered was far less grand than the way we’d built it up in our imaginations. It was still fun to camp out alone all weekend, but it would have been cooler when we were younger. Mysterious, too. We’d been out on boats by the time we camped out there. After being on a boat in the middle of the ocean, being on an island had seemed a lot more tame.

Now I wondered if I’d let my kids go out there when they were the age we’d been when we’d first wanted to go. Maybe? If I did, I’d sneak out there, shift and hide close enough to keep watch over them. It would be win-win. They’d get to be proud of themselves and I’d get to live another day without worrying myself gray.

“I remember one time no amount of prevention was able to deter one stubborn wolverine from attempting to run across what was left of the rope bridge on Ricochet Ridge,” Uncle Atlas said, shooting a look at my father when he said it. I stared at him, too, until he flipped us both the bird and unscrewed the cap on his tea.

“I could never quite accommodate for how much wind there was when I reached the middle,” Pops said. “There was a massive tangle there, and a spot where it was twisted, so I had to scamper across and then turn the moment I reached the other side, which was usually where the wind pushed me off and I wound up dangling and kicking my feet around until I could wiggle back up.”

“What’d you do then?” I asked. “Go back, or keep going?”

“Rush back to whatever side he’d started from,” Uncle Atlas said. “Used to tell him all the time that it was the same distance at that point so he might as well keep going, but he never did.”

“Because I would still have had to run all the way back once I got to the other side, and at that point, I’d had my fill of thrills for the day.”

“I can appreciate that,” Uncle Atlas said. “Still cracks me up when I think about it, though.”

“I bet.”

“Is the bridge still there?” I asked, wondering why I’d never heard about the place before, or seen it on any of our numerous camping trips.

For the first time since we’d started talking, they hesitated, leaving me to try and figure out why mentioning the bridge made them cast unreadable looks at one another, before looking away and fidgeting with something.

“We chopped it down when you were three,” Pops said at last. “After your cousin Sasha fell trying to run along those ropes.”

“If we’d left the story and our recklessness in the past where it belonged, Sasha and your brother Bren wouldn’t have gotten it into their heads to try it,” Uncle Atlas said. “It’s a miracle Bren didn’t fall, too, or I’d have both their shattered futures on my conscience.”

“You weren’t the only one discussing it,” Pops said.

“No, but I was the one who brought it up,” Uncle Atlas declared. “Once everyone started sharing stories of their attempts, there was just no putting that cat back in the bag. Most of you kids were too small to understand what we were talking about; you just babbled along and interrupted our stories with your noises.”

“There were a few well timed ones, too,” Pops pointed out. “Like when Yuri let out a great big burp just as Bruce was describing the size of the steak he’d had on the Cape.”

“So, is that how Sasha wound up in a wheelchair?” I asked before they could shift the topic any further along.

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