The Walker Family Vacation (Episode 2) Page 2

  “Gross, he did,” April whispered back. Then shouted out calmly: “Bethany?—come here, baby.”

  As Bethany let the chicken alone (though it seemed like the bird enjoyed the company, there were plenty of permanent directions for it to flee), she had a sudden and ugly recollection of an elderly man disgorging a veritable bucket of dark blood, dotted with the white humps of his teeth …

  Less calmly, Amanda shouted now, “Bethany, quickly, baby! Quickly!” Squatted down, she held her arms out, encouraging her daughter into them with hands winding in circles while a hot sheet of urgency settled on top of her. “There we are,” she laughed as her daughter bounded up onto the porch and jumped in her arms.

  “Mommy, can we get chickens?” she said in her sweetly pleading voice as Amanda rose to stand with her.

  “And what do you think Ranger would do with a chicken?”

  Bethany winced and grimaced, smiling the whole time, then buried her face in her mommy’s bosom.

  “Would Ranger be nice to the chicken?”

  “No,” she moaned with good humor.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” she reminded her in a gentle whisper. Who could forget the ordeal when their two-year-old Lab had finally cornered a squirrel in his own domain? Forever taunting him, the tables were turned when Speedy Squirrel, as the kids nicknamed him, found himself trapped in the house with a dog who knew every hiding spot. The results had been grisly and traumatizing.

  The door to the office banged behind them, and they turned, April still keeping one wary eye on the drunk. Sheila Lavallée, coming out empty-handed, joined them, saying, “Seven or not, I don’t have a helmet that’ll fit her proper.”

  Bethany’s voice, intoned in a question: “Seven?”

  April put a pointed finger up to her pouted mouth in the universal symbol to shush the heck up.

  Sheila pushed the sleeves of her worn flannel a little higher up her substantial forearms, said, “I checked. That one she tried was the smallest I got. I thought I had another, went and looked—it was the same size.”

  “Thank you for checking,” Amanda said, bouncing at the knees with her daughter held against her chest.

  “I can’t go for a horsey ride?” Bethany said.

  “When you’re a little bigger,” Amanda said appeasingly.

  April nudged her, and she turned to get close, April saying, “What do you want to do? Should we go back?”

  “You guys go on without us—”

  “Me and your girls?”

  Amanda said, “Yeah, you take ‘em.”

  As they spoke, the drunk guy heaved himself from the post and ambled into the dirt patch drive, aiming toward the nearest wagon. Hands on the foot rest, he lowered himself to sit with his back against the face of the dashboard.

  Sheila seemed not to notice him, stepping her boot down off the porch onto the hard-pack, tugging a deer-hide glove on, saying over her shoulder, “I tell you what—let me get your group on the trail, and I’ll take you and your little one for a carriage ride. Just the three of us since it looks like it’s gonna be a quiet day.”

  “What do you think?” she asked April, as Sheila turned and put her hands on her hips.

  While April thought, Sheila said, “I got two riders who’ll lead you, they’re just getting the saddles on.” To Bethany, then, she said, “Hey, cutie?—you’d wanna go through town on one of them carriages, wouldn’t you?”

  4

  Hunt

  “Trouble at home?”

  The voice came from Hunt’s right. Before he even saw from whom it had issued, he had a single frightening thought: older kid. The voice young, but with just that hint of burgeoning testosterone that gave it an antagonistic bravado.

  When he turned, head slowly oscillating from left to right, he saw a young guy coming up the rocky slope that led down from where they sat by the cave mouth. Maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen; unkempt hair, blonde, sort of wavy with lighter curls, red T-shirt and sagging jeans. He walked his bicycle along next to him, a mountain bike, an enduro with lots of colorful flare. The hands holding the handlebars guiding the bike toward them were large and masculine; he caught Hunt’s eyes and smirked. Fucking great.

  Wooly was prepared to take another swig of beer, gaze cast up at the faces peering down from the guardrail, and, hearing the voice so close, he paused, put the can down and showed probably the same expression Hunt did. To the approaching kid he said, “Hey.”

  The boy said it back: “Hey.”

  Now on the left, Hunt could see two other boys wheeling their bikes around the guard rail at the end, mounting them, and without pedaling, zipping sideways along the ridge, long hair on the one in the lead bouncing behind him.

  The kid in the red shirt was with them now, entering their circle of protection, walking his bike then leaning the pedal against a boulder and leaving it to stand upright. He came and stood between them, watching the two other riders hitting the bottom of the slope and switching back, zipping out to the right, one of them popping over a hillock so both wheels came off the ground.

  The other two riders joined them, bringing their bikes into the mouth of the cave in aggressive crescents then pumping the brakes to send up rooster tails of dirt, jumping off and letting the bikes clatter. One of them clapped his hands and hooted.

  “Hey, man,” one of them said.

  “Hey, guys,” the one in the red shirt said to them.

  The two who rode their bikes down the hill were younger than their friend with the red shirt, probably the same age as him and Wooly. The taller one, who sported long lank hair hanging on either side of his face in brown curtains, wore high tops and jeans and a camouflage T-shirt with a drawing of that big forehead kid from Akira. The other one was stocky, like a fireplug, cargo shorts and black T-shirt, with a head of hair much like Wooly’s. In fact, he noted, they each nodded to one another like members of some Brillo fraternity.

  Red shirt said, “Hey, where you kids score that beer?”

  Hunt spoke up, saying, “We’re staying at this place down there,” indicating vaguely through the dense woods toward the village, continuing, “we came up through the hotel next to us and there was a cart for one of the hotel rooms, one of the maids or whatever left it …”

  “Sweet,” he said, extending a hand to Wooly indicating he wanted it.

  While he took it and tipped it to his lips the one with the lank hair said to his stocky friend: “See?”

  Hunt’s fingertips tingled, his mind playing out where this scenario goes; Both of them being robbed of their beer, whatever money they had on them, phones … probably their dignity. That was the way these things happen. Young boys that stray to another young boy’s territory had to be taught a lesson. Victims of predators. And they just been talking about the very same thing.

  Now the red shirt kid handed the beer back to Wooly (who took it with wary eyes), then he turned and kicked a rock and it ricocheted off a nearby boulder. He said to the lank hair: “Ghost stories, man,” then to Wooly, “What did you guys do?”

  Wooly said, “What do you mean? The beer?”

  “No. You got some kid mad at you?”

  Wooly said, “Oh. That. Yeah, I do.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Shoot,” Wooly sighed, looking at his palms, one sloshing beer in the can. “It’s a long story.”

  The fireplug came and took a spot on a boulder near them, picked up a handful of rocks. Red shirt said, “That’s Steve,” then indicating toward the one with the lank hair, “That’s JoJo. I’m Craig.” He held out his hand for another swig of beer. Wooly handed him the can. He took it, sipped another long drink, brought it with him and sat on a nearby boulder saying to JoJo, the lank haired one, “What’d you see up there?”

  He answered, “Nothing. There’s no cars up there.”

  Wooly said, “Yeah, there weren’t any cars up there when we came down.”

  Craig said, “So what did you do to make this kid mad?”

  Woo
ly had that pallid stare of the eternal victim. His mind quivering, seeking out every possibility to extricate himself from the situation. Hunt said, “It was my fault.”

  Craig turned to him and said, “What did you do?”

  “I made him pose for a picture.”

  JoJo grew interested, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees saying, “Was it dirty?”

  “What? … No … I mean, not dirty dirty. There’s this guy at school who’s a total tool and he fell asleep in the quad and we were walking past and Wooly was holding a banana …”

  Craig laughed. “Why’d he have a banana?”

  Hunt said, “I don’t know. It was lunch time.”

  “So?”

  “So, this guy was sleeping, and he had his mouth kind of open and it was obvious so I just told Wooly to go over …”

  Craig smirked. “What—you put the banana in his mouth?”

  Hunt smiled. “Yeah, it was funny. So Wooly went over and he had the banana, you know, between his legs, and he put the tip in the guy’s mouth. It was funny.”

  The three of them laughed.

  Craig said, “So, what?—he wake up?”

  “No, it was, like, ten months ago. We took the picture, thought it was funny, moved on and forgot about it, went to class, you know, whatever. Then last week, I showed this girl, she sent it to a friend. So it’s this old story that I don’t even care about anymore but then she sent it to another girl … next thing you know this guy who had the banana in his mouth is freaking the fuck out. Said he’s going to kill Wooly.”

  This made the other three kids laugh harder. Wooly and Hunt didn’t. This was the part that wasn’t funny.

  Craig stood up and walked toward Wooly and he flinched. Craig handed him the beer, slapped his shoulder, said, “Well, you totally deserve it.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said.

  Fireplug Steve said, “You kind of do.”

  Wooly took a sip of the beer, his expression sullen.

  Hunt said, “You guys from here?”

  JoJo said, “The island? Yeah, we’re from here. Where you from?”

  Together Hunt and Wooly said, “Indiana.”

  “Americans,” one of them said, though evenly, no indication whether that was considered good or bad.

  Hunt nodded his chin up toward the guardrail and said, “Is it weird there’s no one in the parking lot?”

  Steve said, “Yeah, it is. It’s weird like how you were able to just walk away with some beers at a hotel weird.”

  Craig said, “The maid was around somewhere.”

  “I know. It’s just his dad’s sick,” Steve said, throwing a thumb toward JoJo, and then jabbing to Craig with an index finger saying, “His mom wouldn’t get out of bed this morning. Then we ride our bikes through town coming up from the island road up near British Park and, like, there’s nobody.”

  Hunt said, “We saw this old guy throw up blood at a restaurant yesterday.”

  An uneasy looked passed over the three of them.

  Wooly said, “What do you mean nobody?”

  “Not totally nobody, but … it’s summer,” Steve said. “This place is usually humming. We come out here and sometimes find that,” he indicated the beer can Wooly held. “People come out here with their picnics and whatever and they just leave shit lying around. Get beer, condoms,” he looked at them to clarify, “not used ones. You know, all sorts of stuff you tourists leave lying around here.”

  Craig was unconvinced, saying, “Whatever,” kicking another rock, this time even harder, ricocheting so it bounced toward long-haired JoJo who put both hands up to block it though it didn’t come near him.

  “Hey!” he said, raising a knee to protect his privates.

  Now Craig turned around, hitched up his sagging jeans and raised his fists toward Wooly. He said, “Get up. Come over here. I’ll show you how to fight.”

  5

  Amanda

  “You got that helmet on alright?” Amanda asked Becca, standing at the side of the chestnut quarter horse, petting the shoulder of the big animal and giving the young girl a look of comical scrutiny.

  “Yes, Mrs. Walker,” she said.

  “Good, why don’t you show me then?” she asked, tugging at an imaginary strap under her own chin.

  Becca huffed and rolled her eyes, smiling though, tugging on the black helmets chin strap, then palming the top and wriggling it around her skull to prove it was snug.

  “Thank you,” Amanda said, and tapped her knee.

  Becca stopped her as she walked away. “You’re not going to bug Tabby?”

  Tabby said from her horse, “Mom doesn’t care about my head.”

  Amanda turned, walking backward, saying, “I care about Tabby’s head—she knows she doesn’t have a helmet on she’s grounded … or worse …” She narrowed her eyes, scanning them over both girls, showing them great menace, then resumed her stride to April at the front of the posse.

  No, she had little power over Becca, and she saw with great clarity, would she return the young girl to her hysterical mother with any dings or scratches, there would be scornful repercussions; the punishment for permanent neurological disability would be dire, Becca Oliver’s father being the Oliver in Orlovsky Stein Oliver, Indiana’s favorite personal injury legal franchise.

  Passing by Stacy, she gave her beefy thigh a squeeze. “Excited?” she asked, looking up at her daughter sitting in the saddle, unexcited face shaded from sun by the helmet’s prominent visor.

  “Sure,” she replied without expression.

  “Probably should take those out,” Amanda told her, indicating to her ears with pointed fingers.

  Stacy nodded but didn’t answer, plucking the earbuds out and letting them dangle from the V collar of her sweatshirt.

  “I hope you have fun, Stacy,” Amanda said, stroking her daughter’s leg before moving on.

  6

  Bethany

  The almost square patch of weathered wood outside the stable lady’s office was five paces by five-and-a-half. These were lo-ong paces that tested the grip on her red ballerina shoes. Once she almost went down in a splits but she held onto the railing and it saved her.

  Now she skipped, alternating with a lead foot shuffling in double time, imitating a horsey, going from one end to the other. Mommy said Do not step off the wood. And she wouldn’t.

  Of course, there was a new problem. There was a good chance it would be okay, but these things weren’t guaranteed; when she was littler, this would be a disaster, but now she was grown up she could get a grip on it. Probably. The horsey shuffle helped, and pinching the hem of her blue shirt dress and flapping the skirt like wings also provided relief. The dress was her favorite: looked like a jean shirt, with a collar and buttons but then it had a cinchy-waist and a floppy skirt that bounced if she stomped. She did it now; the shuffle turning to stomps, her lips sucked under the bite of her teeth.

  The man was watching her again.

  The sleepy one who sat in the dirt and leaned on a old wooden wagon looked at her, his head all noddy, his eyes half-closed. But she found if she moonwalked to the lip of the porch, the limit of where Mommy restricted her, she could get the front half of Auntie April’s horsey to block him out. Now she peeked around the post, saw the man looking around for her, darted her head back. Weirdo.

  Gosh, she had to go. Without skipping, the tickle came again, and she dipped at the knees and pushed her skirt down hard with both her fists.

  How long did it take to get ready for a trail ride?

  Mommy walked to Auntie April, and Bethany worried that if she couldn’t strut, she may end up having a little-girl accident—which was, frankly, as Daddy would say, bullshit, because she was a big-girl.

  Busted.

  Stacy watched her, making her mean face but smiling.

  Bethany gave her an enthusiastic yet restricted wave (given the circumstances), and Stacy imitated it, giving it right back. Her big sister mouthed: What the heck are you doing
?

  She mouthed back: I have to pee pee!

  7

  Amanda

  “I look good on a horse, don’t I?” April said, seeing her sister approach, cocking her hip even though she sat astride the tallest horse of the bunch.

  “You do,” Amanda agreed. “Didn’t you fall off a horse once? … Weren’t you with Mom …? I want to say Costa Rica …”

  “Yeah,” April said, “I was twelve.”

  “You have a lot more horse riding under your belt now?” she asked her with one haughtily raised eyebrow.

  “No. But I’m not an idiot anymore.”

  Amanda shrugged and smirked, gave her a dubious expression.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Feels really good when you’re making me responsible for your kids for the next hour.”

  Amanda laughed, said, “Give me your phone …”

  “My phone? Why?”

  “I’ll take your picture, you can send it to Houston. Tell him you’re Annie Oakley or something, you can add it to your role-playing repertoire.” She added: “When you get home, not tonight.”

  April said nothing, her face poised joyfully, eyes darting back-and-forth thinking of the possibilities. She took off her helmet and held it at her hip, shook her hair out, hand going into her pocket.

  Amanda came to the side of the horse and took April’s phone then walked back saying, “Come on out into the sun, you’re in the shade here.”

  April hitched her knees, impelling the horse away from the trail rider at her side and came out from the shade that was cast by the main barn at the stable. They all still gathered in the beaten circular drive/paddock of the homestead, and the drunk man watched them through slitted eyes from his front row seat, sitting on the ground with his back against the wagon.

  Amanda lined April up in the iPhone’s screen, got a nice composition, made sure she did her best to capture her sister’s greatest features and snapped three pictures. When she handed the phone back to her she said, “You send a picture then the phone goes away. No texting while riding. Remember you’re looking out for my kids.”