Page 36 of Until Now
As the motors are shut off, children’s voices can be heard over the sounds of nature. The smell of trees and water and the whole picture reminds me so much of my youth—camping with the family. My one attempt at being a Boy Scout was a dismal failure. Never felt right there. And after the first year, I didn’t return.
Hunter swings a leg over the Harley and runs over to Bing before I’m even upright. The excitement on their faces is cool. James and Dean exit the car and rush to join them.
“Okay, boys, these are our accommodations. Who wants to sleep where?”
I know Dominique would say that’s our first mistake, letting the kids choose. Probably Kim and July as well. I can hear them now. But hey, it’s no big thing.
“Hunter and I call dibs on Big Fish!” Bing says, running to plant his metaphorical flag.
Immediately Dean and James start yelling, “No fair! That’s the one we wanted! Dad!!”
“What the hell difference does it make?” Wes says sternly.
“We want to be big fish, not dancing bears!”
All four kids are trying to beat each other to the desired tipi. They rush through the opening, pushing each other aside. James goes down but gets up and tries to trip Bing. It doesn’t work. Those few years between them give the older boys a distinct advantage. I predict tears will happen somewhere, sometime soon.
“Fuck me,” Wes mutters.
“Whose idea was it to let them pick?” Asher asks, chuckling. “The women could have told you that was a disaster waiting to happen.”
I offer my take. “Just let them all sleep in there. We can take the other two.”
It’s certainly big enough. Queen pillows top beds, leather loveseats that convert to a twin, an extra cot, A/C, and heat. It’s a damn resort in there.
“My father-in-law and I will take Dancing Bear; you take Little Bear. We’re not going to get any sleep anyway. You both realize that, right?”
* * *
This will forever be known asThe Afternoon of a Hundred Fights. It started with the tipis and carried through who got what bed. The pinnacle was when Bing and Hunter wanted to cruise the campground and check out the girls. No little kids allowed. James and Dean were highly insulted and stormed off to do a perimeter check of the camp.
Finally, as dusk settled into night, and we sat around the fire pit, a sort of truce showed up. Brotherhood won the day, or at least the night. Bing showed Dean how to load his marshmallows on the stick he found for him. Hunter and James had a contest to see who could eat the blackest, most unappetizing one. There’s shared laughter. At last. This has been a school in parenthood. I wouldn’t say that out loud because it sounds as stupid as it is. One afternoon does not an education make. But for me, it’s a crash course, at least. Seems like every moment requires good solid decision-making skills, and they could have lasting effects on the child. You can’t fuck up too often. Or at all.
“Let’s make s’mores. Here.” Wes says it as he passes out the Hershey bars and graham crackers. The bag of marshmallows leans against Bing’s low to the ground folding chair.
The looks on their faces show how something so small, so insignificant, can bring happiness to children. I get it, I still look forward to eating this strange concoction, and it’s connected to the memories I have. Some moments in time never fade.
None of us have taken a shower or combed our hair. Six hours in, and we look like Jeremiah Johnson’s posse. Asher has mustard on his sweatshirt, and I have dirt under my nails from whittling marshmallow roasting sticks. Wes ripped his t-shirt, lifting Dean into the tree nearby. So what? Inside my mind, I hear the ape in me call while pounding his chest.
“Let’s tell spooky stories!” Bings says while rotating his burnt marshmallow.
“Yeah!” James adds, with an unconvincing expression.
Dean looks even less excited about any story that can be described as scary, making the older boys more into the idea. But it’s Asher who takes the lead.
“Did I ever tell you boys about my friend’s cousin Margie?”
“No. Is this a real story?” Dean’s voice trails off.
“Could be. It sounds pretty real to me. So here’s what happened. Ever since Margie was a little girl, when she got scared, she would put her hand under her bed, and her dog would lick her hand to comfort her.”
There’s not a soul here who doesn’t see where this is going. Not even the youngest of us.
“Anyway, Margie was about fourteen, just about the same age as Hunter and Bing, and her parents were going out, and they were going to be out late. She was kind of excited to be able to stay home alone. It was a snowy winter night, and she would have as much hot chocolate as she wanted.”
Bing jumps in. “Mom lets me stay alone during the day sometimes.”
“Go on,” James says. “What happened?”
