Scavengers

by Rosalyn Wraight

  "My brother-in-law. I think all resort owners have facemasks and chainsaws. Why the hell they think it's funny, though, is beyond me. He's a retired drill sergeant. I think he just gets of a kick out of still being able to instill the fear of God."

  "Laura, you can get up now,” Holly said, offering her a hand.

  Laura was reluctant to take it, but she finally did so. She stood and dispensed a dirty look to every other prone woman. Granted, none of us—flattened and clinging to another—had any right whatsoever to laugh at Laura, but that certainly did not mean we did not have the desire—or the need. Surprisingly, it was Laura who released the first laugh. It came as one of those rupturing snorts from the nasal cavities and turned into full-blown body-shaking tear-streaming, breath-seizing laughter. Like a wildfire it spread through everyone, and for a good five minutes we buffeted between hysteria and the need to pee.

  Eventually, the little energy we had whittled away to nothingness. It was nearly three in the morning. We straightened up the area and formed another circle around the fire. Conversations confined themselves to couples and never rose beyond a whisper. I heard Susan expressing worry that her muddy capris were not befitting a Sunday brunch. I heard Alison snoring softly. I heard Laura telling Holly how much she loved her. I heard Claudia's gentle breathing as she lay next to me, nearly on top of me on the reclining lawn chair. With each inhalation, I imagined her moving that much more back to me. I stroked her hair, and I felt peaceful in her slumber.

  Kris and Ginny remained seated, towering over the group. It seemed their intent was to keep a vigil over us all night—maybe just to protect us from Vernon. They whispered to each other, but I could not eavesdrop from my distance. I could tell, however, which couple they talked about.

  Each got the conversation turned to them at least once. When their eyes drifted to us, I merely smiled at them and gently erected a thumbs-up.

  The quiet conversations eventually ceased. For a group of women who were to remain “alert to the finish line,” we did an awful job, as each of us succumbed to sleep.

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  Chapter 11

  I couldn't quite fathom how, but I was sure that sometime during the night, the kidney-stealing parking brake had made its way from the car and to the lawn chair beneath me. It was certain it had performed its dastardly deed, as my body screamed in pain, and I was sure my back sported a gaping hole.

  Claudia stirred, her head resting on my belly. She looked at me and began crawling her way up my torso. I smiled at her and said, “Morning, Lover Doll."

  From behind us Alison's voice moaned, “Oh my God, Kate, you wouldn't!"

  Oh, but I would!I peered around to see Alison in the midst of her morning yoga routine. “You're right; I wouldn't. At least not in the presence of a yoga master. You'd talk us into some weird position we'd never be able to get out of,” I said. My mind quickly pondered why initially that had seemed so dreadful. “On second thought—"

  Holly neared us with a thermos. “You want some coffee, Kate?” she asked, but at the same time, she poured, knowing there would be no debate. “I don't know what happened to Earl, Claudia.

  Sorry. Maybe Vernon got him."

  She handed me a cup of lukewarm coffee. Eternally grateful, I teased, “Holly, I love you! You're my kind of girl. Run away with me?"

  "Cool. Let's go before grumpy one here gets up,” she said, tossing her head back in Laura's direction. “Claudia, you drive."

  "Earrrrrl!” she cried. “Not without my Earrrrrl!"

  "Get a grip, Claudia!” I teasingly scolded. “I've got Earl in the car. Remember? Let me up, and I'll go get him."

  She released me, and I did my best to stand in the face of immense pain. I saw Maggie folding blankets, and I said, “Hey, Maggie, I need to run to the car. Walk with me?"

  She quite pleasantly agreed, and we headed to the front parking lot. When we got there, I unlocked the car and grabbed my PDA from the glovebox. “Pocket dictionary and thesaurus,” I said. “'Sanguinary humdinger brine.’ Got for it."

  I sat in the driver's seat, lit a cigarette, slurped my coffee, and watched her tap her way to wisdom. After all, information begets control, does it not? I wondered if Claudia would still believe that with the same fervency.

  Maggie soon said, “Sanguinary, involving or causing great bloodshed. Oh, good.” Several taps later, she added, “Humdinger, a remarkable person or thing.” She hit the “thesaurus” button at my urging and got “jim-dandy, dandy, dilly, beaut.” Then she said, “I already know what brine is.

  It's a saltwater soak or similar."

  "Think of things that come from a brine,” I prodded, half of me wanting just to tell her, but she was the kind of soul who derived self-esteem from what she could accomplish.

  "A pickle?” she asked, and I told her to keep going. “A jim-dandy pickle that causes bloodshed?

  No—at least I hope not. Bloodshed dandy pickle."

  I was nodding my head vigorously, knowing she was but a second away.

  "Bloodshed dilly pickle! Dill pickle!” she cried. “What the heck is a bloodshed dill pickle."

  Argh! So close. “Um ... get the pickle out of the shed,” I idiotically suggested but didn't know what else to say without actually saying it.

  "Huh?"

  "Try ‘bloody dill pickle,'” I suggested.

  "No!"

  Argh! “Where would a pickle have to be in order for it to get—no, that won't work. You'll gag or something. Um ... There's a kind of drink that's blood red and can have a big dill pickle in it.

  Think,” I suggested, knowing that I had all but said it outright. Then I stood up and waited for the grandaha.

  But it didn't come. Instead, she hung her head and said, “This whole thing is going to come down to a pickle from a Bloody Mary? An f-ing pickle?"

  "Yes, an f-ing pickle. A fickle. A fugly fickle. And you expected something monumental ...

  instead of just mental?"

  "I did! I really did! Fugly fickle is f-ing right."

  "Yep, and remember: Getting that first Bloody Mary will cost you brunch for nine. Think hard about whether winning is really the prize.” As I got to my feet, I quickly added, “Revenge may be sweeter. You know those ‘just desserts.’ Now, I've got to get back and get a caffeine fix in my woman."

  Just as I had returned and fetched the thermos of plain hot water, I saw a man heading our way.

  Across his shoulders was a long metal bar, and from each end hung a large bucket of crushed ice.

  He carried the weight as if it were the thermos I clutched.

  "Good morning, girls,” he said quite kindly. “Listen, I'm sorry if I scared you all last night with my little prank. I don't know what go into me. Maybe I'm just excited about the season about to open and the campers returning. Whatever, though, I'm sorry."

  "We weren't afraid. Were we, Laura?” I said, unable to resist one more round of nose rubbing. “It was good for a laugh. Don't worry about it."

  "Great” he replied, seemingly relieved by our verdict. Then he leaned toward me and in a quieter voice said, “If you could tell that to Kris and my wife, I'd be much grateful.” Then his voice boomed again, as he added, “Now, I've got to get a move on. People for brunch!"

  He strode off—the drill sergeant, who had obviously been drilled to the wall by two sisters.

  My mind recalled every inane slasher movie that I had ever seen, and when I looked around at my comrades, I noticed that each of us resembled the one poor survivor: babbling on the roadside, disheveled, spent, and on her way into years and years of therapy. In the same slasher-movie way, it wasn't over, either, although you were being lulled into that belief. There was always something—eyes in the woods, the distant sound of a chainsaw, or the smell of bacon cooking in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere—something just told you that it wasn't quite over, not just yet.

  For us, the time swiftly wended its way to nine. We did our best to make ourselve
s presentable and to load everything back into the van. With a mere ten minutes to go, we all headed to the front of the building. We walked like the civilized, upstanding citizens that Kris and Ginny said we couldn't be.

  Well, at least we were that way until we rounded the front of the building. Then all hell broke loose. Suddenly, it had nothing even to do with couples. It was each woman for herself, making a made dash for the front door as the clock ticked. Without a doubt, we were very alert to the finish line, and very alert to the pain elbows could inflict on a competitor.

  This was it! The moment for which we had worked so hard.

  The anticipation and desperation heightened even more when we saw the “Closed for the Season”

  sign being removed from the door window. Like track stars as the gun is raised, we dug in our feet, waiting for the blessed moment to shove off. But unlike those same athletes, our launch looked far from graceful and disciplined. As one, we nearly fell into a heap as the door pulled inward.

  The pile of us had landed in a small receiving area, and a woman, obviously Kris’ sister, said, “If you'll give me a moment, I will find you a table."

  We stood at attention, still writhing to get to the head of the nonexistent line.

  Seconds later, the woman returned and politely instructed, “If you'll follow me..."

  Now maybe we could be uncivilized with each other, but to bowl over an innocent woman in our haste—well, just let it be stated that we had never gone that far. We contained ourselves and followed her out of the tiny room. As we rounded the corner, we saw a long set table with the grand poo-bahs seated there, staring at us as they sipped steaming hot coffee. We saw Kris’ sister, who had led us in, suddenly move away from us. And then we saw Vernon, standing behind the bar with a broad grin on his face.

  The bar!Oh, the mayhem that ensued!

  I saw Holly throw herself to the floor and grab Claudia's leg with one arm while latching onto Susan's leg with the other. “I have them! Run, Laura! Run!” she cried.

  But Laura had something else in mind. Before I could even think to defend myself, she scooped me up and hauled me back to the entryway. She shoved me into the coat closet, saying, “Some like us are forced to live in the closet. Poor things!” She slammed the door.

  I promptly opened the door and ran after her as she made a beeline for the bar, where, I gleefully noted, stood Alison in full smile waiting for Vernon to make her a frickin’ Bloody Mary.Fugly fickle, please.

  Rather than tackle Laura to the ground, I attempted to pull on Holly as she willfully held onto the two flailing legs. I finally freed them both and watched as Holly, too, made a beeline for the bar.

  There, they barked their orders at Vernon, as if their life depended upon it.

  But we had something else in mind. The four of us—Susan, Maggie, Claudia, and me—formed a line behind them. Calmly we watched as they excitedly took their Bloody Marys from Vernon.

  With the arrogance of a huge hawk with a minute mouse in its claw, they turned, and one of them said, “Looks like we just won, ladies."

  "Oh, you did, did you?” said the enlightened Maggie.

  "Oh?” said the newly enlightened one with the muddy pants.

  "You think so, huh?” said the lighter one.

  "We'll have four more Bloody Marys, Vernon,” I said. “And you might as well make it pitchers since these twowinners here will be picking up the tab."

  B-words, F-bombs—you know the rest of the drill. The two of them were allowed absolutely no joy in their hard fought, hard won victory.

  At least one vendetta had been settled, and at this juncture, “sanguinary” indeed meant

  “bloodshed."

  We argued back and forth as Vernon prepared a pitcher of Bloody Marys, offering it up with four glasses, a big fugly fickle sticking out of each. As I reached for the pitcher from the bar, Vernon asked, “She didn't tell you, did she?"

  "Who?” I asked. “Who tell us what?"

  "Kris! Did she tell you that there's no charge for brunch? This is the tactical field exercise for the new summer staff."

  "A frickin’ dress rehearsal?” I screamed, relying on an analogy I knew better, but I quickly scoured my mind for the jargon I had picked up from my dad, a military man as well.

  "Yeah, from the way you girls were talking,” Vernon continued, “it sure sounded like she didn't tell you. There's no charge for helping us!"

  With that, Holly began wildly jumping up and down, and Laura did that peacock thing. They high-fived each other, while the rest of us simply stared at each other, our mouths agape like very duped and deflating Lover Dolls.

  "Sir, Vernon, sir,” I yelled, holding a salute, as I slowly dusted off the memories my father had given me.

  "What is it, recruit?” he snapped back, smiling as he transformed into something bigger, as if he were slipping into an old uniform that fit him so well.

  "Permission to test your cleaning staff, sir!"

  "Permission granted, recruit!” he said loudly, saluted, and then whispered, “And how!"

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  I looked to my comrades, who I thought were catching onto the only recourse that remained.

  "Ready!” I said, grasping the slippery “jim-dandy pickle that causes bloodshed” between my fingers and watching the three others do the same. “Aim! Fire!” I shouted.

  I figured it was at about the “fi” in “fire” when Holly and Laura hit the deck like the peahens they had proven to be.

  But, they were not our targets. We turned slowly, like military turrets, and let the sanguinary humdinger brines lob themselves toward the grand dames, the grand poo-bahs, these women who had so skillfully screwed with us.

  They did not hit them. We did not intend for them to hit them. It was the ducking we wanted as the dripping projectiles ripped their way towards them. It was that apropos splash of tomato juice that each of them got in their laughing face as the bloody battle came to an end.

  We turned, and this time, our occasion to high-five had arrived.

  Funny, if we didn't madly jump up and down and strut like peacocks.

  It was victory.

  Just without the points.