by Don Calame
“It’s just . . . family stuff,” I say, picking up an impossibly small twig and throwing it away again. “Hank, actually. My mother’s going to marry him when we get back, and I don’t think it’s a good idea. I just . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. Even though I keep telling myself to stop. That’s all.”
Charlie would not be pleased with me for confessing even this much, but it sure beats confessing to the other truth. And it’s not like I said I was trying to scare Hank off or anything . . .
“He seems like a decent enough guy,” Penelope says, picking up an actual usable stick. “What’s your problem with him?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “But there’ll be something. There’s always something. My mom has about as good a record with guys as Arkham Asylum has of keeping its inmates locked up. In fact, if we lived in Gotham, several of her boyfriends would probably have been escapees.”
This makes Penelope laugh, which feels nice. Really nice.
“At least your mother is committing to someone. Mine is just satisfied with having a series of meaningless — often quite audible — carnal encounters. I don’t even bother learning their names any longer. Though, sometimes, when she’s in the throes, I have little choice.”
“Earplugs,” I say. “That’s what I use.”
Penelope nods. “Noise-canceling headphones work better. As long as you have something distracting enough to listen to. I’m partial to the New Yorker fiction podcasts myself.”
We continue walking, picking up branches as we go.
“What about your dad?” I ask. “Is he still around?”
“He is,” Penelope says. “Around. Just not twenty-four-seven.”
“But you see him?”
Penelope smiles. “Oh, sure. He’s great. I love him. We have a lot in common, he and I. Well, except for the fact that he’s gay.”
“What?” I do a double take. “But didn’t he and your mother . . . didn’t they . . . you know . . . in order to have you?”
Penelope laughs. “What can I say? The mind is a powerful thing. My father was living in a state of denial. It’s a big state, Dan. A lot of people live there.”
“I guess. Jeez, that must have been really hard for your mom, huh? When he, you know, finally figured it out?”
“Hard doesn’t even begin to describe it. My mother was devastated when he decided to leave. The worst part was that she actually thought she turned him gay somehow.” Penelope laughs, then bites her lower lip. “Sorry. It’s not really funny. But it kind of is, you know? I tried to explain to her that it’s not actually possible to turn someone gay, but I don’t know if she’s ever come to terms with it.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Were you mad at him?”
Penelope shrugs. “Not really. A bit like, ‘Wow, that’s some interesting news.’ But how could I be mad? It’d be like getting angry at him for being bald. Sure, I was sad that my mother was sad. But I was also glad my dad wasn’t living a lie anymore. I mean, he’s an amazing guy. He deserves to be happy. And he loves me. Still loves my mom, even though she can’t stand to look at him.”
I shake my head. “Sounds like you handled it really well. I’m not sure how I would take that news.”
We walk in silence for a while. Collecting more branches.
“How about you?” Penelope finally asks. “Your father? Is he still in the picture?”
“In my picture?” I say. “No. He took off when I was ten. Haven’t heard from him since. I think he lives in Florida. That’s about all I know. Well, and that he’s a drunk.”
“Ahhh, OK.” She nods. “That makes sense now.”
“What does?”
“The Hank thing. Why you can’t accept him. Why you’re against the wedding.”
“I already told you,” I say. “Because he’s going to turn out to be a douche. Just like all the rest of them. Except this time it’s going to be even harder for my mom when things go bad. No one’s ever gone so far as to propose to her before.”
“So, it’s your mother you’re concerned about?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Not your inability to let go of the prospect of your father coming back?”
“There’s nothing to let go of. My father isn’t coming back.” I instinctively grab my wrist, as if Penelope plans to steal his old Timex.
“But he could. I mean, it’s not like he’s dead or gay or anything. Your mother and he could get back together. Hypothetically.”
“But they won’t. Even if he did show up, my mom wouldn’t take him back. Not after all this time. Not after the way he left.” I clench my jaw. “He’s a screwup. And an asshole. Why the hell would I want him back in my life? That’s just stupid.”
“All right, OK,” Penelope says, raising a hand. “As long as you’re over it.”
I blink hard. “Let’s just . . . look for branches, OK? It’s going to start getting dark soon.”
“Yes. Avoidance. Good strategy. Also known as the ostrich approach.”
“Right,” I say. “And you’re totally fine with the fact that your dad left your mom — whatever the reason. Doesn’t bother you at all. Not even a little, you’re so enlightened. That’s not burying your head in the sand?”
Penelope looks at me. “You want the truth?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Ostriches don’t actually bury their heads in the sand,” she says. “It’s a fallacy.”
“OK.” I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“It’s true. They wouldn’t be able to breathe. They do, however, dig holes in the dirt to use as nests for their eggs, and several times a day the female bird will put her head in the hole to turn the eggs.” She laughs. “God, you and Charlie both. No sense of humor. Must be a laughfest when the two of you hang out.”
Charlie’s right. She is a wild card. Not to mention a head case.
I’m glad I didn’t tell her about our plan for Hank. She would have just gone off on some more of her psychobabble. Really, she should turn that microscope of hers on herself.
“Listen, I apologize,” Penelope says as we’re headed back. “Sometimes I can’t help myself. I enjoy goading people. It’s, like, a hobby or a compulsion, perhaps. But as my mom says, just because I find something funny doesn’t mean everybody else does. Can you forgive me?”
When I don’t say anything, she cranes her neck to try to meet my eyes.
“Hello? Yes? No?” she says. “I’m an asshole? I’m a lunatic? Say something, at least.”
I’m about to speak, confess that maybe there’s the tiniest truth to what she was saying about my dad — as much as I hate to admit it — when something skitters behind us.
“Awww, look,” Penelope says, pointing off into the bushes. “It’s a squirrel.”
I smile. “Just like Squirrel Girl.” I point to Penelope’s shirt. And then I become painfully aware of the fact that we’re both staring at her chest. My face prickles with heat.
“See, Dan,” Penelope says, breaking the tension and glancing back at the shrubs, “sometimes the universe offers you up just the right thing at the right time.”
I look at the squirrel again. It’s straight out of a Pixar movie: chubby-cheeked and adorable, nibbling on something in its tiny little paws.
Suddenly, a rock whooshes past my ear and nails the little critter square in the head.
“Holy shit!” I whip around to see Penelope with her fist in the air.
“Got it!” she shouts.
“Why — why the hell did you do that?”
“Supper,” she says matter-of-factly.
“But . . . Hank’s getting us food,” I say, still staring at the lifeless furry form.
“I know, but he didn’t seem very confident about it, did he? And I’m really ravenous.”
I’m still trying to digest the fact that she just brained a squirrel with a rock. But now the reality of what she’s saying kicks in. “You want us to eat that?”
“What do you think Ha
nk is hunting — deer? With his bare hands?” Penelope says. “Besides, squirrel happens to be a Victorian delicacy.” She starts walking toward her kill. “They serve it at some of the finest restaurants in London.”
“They serve sausages made out of pig’s blood, too,” I say. “But I’m not about to tuck into one of those, either.”
Penelope hoists the squirrel by the tail. “You’ll be singing a different tune when you smell this thing barbecuing over a fire.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I say, cringing as the tiny body sways back and forth. “And you should be grateful I won’t be eating it. That thing will barely feed you, let alone all four of us.”
“Oh, we’re not all sharing this guy.” Penelope lays the furry body down gently on the ground and snatches up another stone. She peers up at the branches, cocks her arm, and launches the rock skyward.
“Yes!” Another squirrel topples over and plummets to the ground. “And my mother said Wonder Woman Camp was a silly waste of money.”
“Let the feast commence!” Penelope announces as we march into our new camp. She hoists eight dead squirrels over her head.
I stumble over to the big support rock, my forearms aching under the weight of fifteen large branches. I dump the sticks on the ground and return to see that Charlie has gotten a nice fire going. He’s also managed to get himself impossibly clean, which is a miracle only Charlie could perform with the supplies at hand.
“Where did you get the squirrels?” Hank asks, crouched over the brook, filtering water through a sand-filled sock, collecting it into a concave stone. I’m sure Charlie had his opinions about the sanitariness of this method.
“Penelope beaned them with rocks,” I say. “She’s like Squirrel Girl’s archenemy.”
“Yeah, well.” Hank scrunches up his nose. “I’m not sure that we should really be eating those.”
“We have to eat them,” Penelope insists, tossing the carcasses near the fire pit. “It would be profane to do otherwise. They’ve given their lives for us.”
“Technically,” Charlie says, stoking the fire with a long stick, “they didn’t give anything. You took it from them. Barbarously, by the sounds of it. Which doesn’t surprise me.”
“Once again, your ignorance is astounding,” Penelope says. “Blunt-force trauma to the head happens to be one of the most humane ways to kill an animal. But then, being the simpleton you are, I wouldn’t expect you to know that.”
Charlie turns away, his clenched jaw twitching like crazy.
“How do you suggest we field-dress them?” Hank asks, regarding the pile of bodies.
Penelope frowns. Not something they covered at Wonder Woman Camp, I presume. “I figured you would know how to accomplish that,” she says. “It’s just like any other animal, right? Only . . . smaller.”
“Generally one has a knife when one is skinning an animal,” Hank says.
“It can be done without a knife,” Charlie says. “I watched a great deal of survival videos on YouTube before we came here.”
“Of course you did,” Hank says, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
“I’m happy to talk someone through it,” Charlie offers. “But there’s no way I’m going to subject myself to the handling of any potential plague carriers.”
Hank looks at me as he wrings out his wet sock. “Why don’t you take a crack at it, Dan? It’d be good experience for you.”
“Me? No way. I practically faint when Mom asks me to handle raw chicken. You’re the hunter,” I tell him. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Actually, now that I think about it,” Hank says, turning to Penelope, “it’s usually customary for the person who bags the game to prepare it.”
“Yeah, no thanks.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I have to draw the line at dismemberment. I worry I’ve already stirred my inner serial killer.”
Hank sighs. “OK, fine. But if it proves to be too difficult, I’m stopping. I’m not about to spend the entire night with my hands up a squirrel.”
As Charlie instructs Hank in the fine art of disemboweling a squirrel without a knife — which involves squeezing the guts toward the anus, “as though you’re icing a cake”— Penelope and I get to work on our shelter. By the time we’re done, Hank has each of the eight squirrels skinned, gutted, and skewered on sticks.
“I’m beyond starving!” I say as we all gather around the fire.
“Starving enough to eat squirrel?” Penelope asks, her voice smug.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I admit. She was right: once I caught smell of the roasting meat, my animal instincts took over. There’s no way I’m not devouring both my squirrel skewers.
Hank passes me the stone bowl filled with the water he’s filtered through his sock. I try not to think about his sweaty, lint-flecked toes as I take a sip. Meanwhile, Charlie hands out the squirrel skewers.
I bring the scorched rodent to my nose for a sniff. “Smells . . . interesting. Kind of like barbecued chicken thigh, but with a hint of, I don’t know, underarm odor?”
“It might smell like staphylococcus epidermidis,” Charlie says, “but I assure you, there are no living bacteria or parasitic roundworms left in that carcass.” He glances at the water bowl. “I cannot, however, say the same for Hank’s hosiery-strained refreshment.”
I pull off a piece of the hot, charbroiled flesh, pinching carefully so as not to burn my fingers. I juggle the meat in my palm before popping it in my mouth.
“Hot-hot-hot,” I huff, my mouth a giant O. “But tasty . . . ish.”
“Thanks for catching the food, Penelope,” Hank says, licking the meat grease from his fingers. “I certainly didn’t expect to be eating this well tonight.”
“You’re most welcome,” Penelope says. “And thank you for flaying them. And you, Charlie, for your rudimentary culinary skills. All together we make one reasonably competent mountain person.”
Charlie just grunts as he picks at his food.
“You know, there’s this great restaurant in my neighborhood,” Hank says, chewing with his mouth open. “That serves all sorts of exotic foods. Snails, sweetbreads, horse. And you eat the food blindfolded. So you experience only the smells and flavors.” He lifts his charcoal-smeared chin in my direction. “Your mom and I’ll take you there sometime. It’s an experience.”
I cringe. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that. But thanks.”
Hank laughs. “It’s actually pretty good. There are all sorts of funky shops and eateries near my house. There’s even a super-cool comic book store. I think you’re going to like it.” Hank looks down. “You know, if we end up moving there.”
If we end up moving there? What am I, five? Of course me and Mom will have to move in with him. There’s no way he’s going to give up his big swanky house to live in our crappy little hovel. Give me a break.
My rage at Hank rises up all over again. Penelope might be right that I miss my dad — or at least the idea of my dad — but that has nothing to do with why I hate Hank. No. It’s things like this. Little condescending remarks. That’s how it starts with all of the boyfriends. The tip of the asshole iceberg.
That’s it. Time to get things back on track here.
“I was wondering,” I say, placing my picked-clean skewers down on a rock. “Could you teach me how to fight, Hank?”
Hank’s eyebrows arch. “How to fight?”
“Ah, the gentleman’s art of pugilism.” Charlie catches my eye and gives me a slight nod of approval.
“Yeah,” I say to Hank. “If I’m moving to a new school and all, I figure it might be a good idea to know how to defend myself — you know, just in case. And I was hoping, as my future stepdad, that you might show me how to throw a punch.”
My insides are curdling into a little ball of shame. Charlie is right: this is so much more painful to do in front of Penelope. To allow myself to look weak in front of a girl who can knock a squirrel out of a tree with a rock at fifty paces. A girl who, in an alternate universe w
here I hadn’t pledged myself to Erin, could be perfect for me.
But I have no choice.
Times are getting desperate.
“Sure, bud,” Hank says slowly. “When we get home, we can practice a few techniques. Maybe even enroll you in a self-defense course if you want. Though I’m sure your new school will be pretty safe.”
“How about now?” I press, hating myself. “Just a basic punch.”
“Now?” Hank repeats.
“Sure. Why not? It’ll be fun,” I say. “We’ve got nothing else to do till the sun goes down. Whaddya say”— I twist the knife — “Dad?”
“This should be interesting,” Penelope says, spinning around on her log to watch Hank and me get ready to spar.
“You have no idea,” Charlie says under his breath, his camera at the ready.
“Now, obviously this is for self-defense only,” Hank says, stepping one foot back and angling toward me. “Violence should always be a last resort. All right, the first thing you want to do is get in a good stance.” He winces a little as he adjusts the position of his injured leg. “Your heels are about shoulder-width apart. Your lead foot, your left foot, is in front. Your right foot behind you.”
“Like this?” I say, mirroring Hank’s position as best I can.
He nods. “That’s good. Just point the toes of your back foot away from your body a bit. Turn the front foot about forty-five degrees.”
I pivot my feet a little.
“That’s right,” Hank says. “Excellent.”
“Barbecue and a good brawl,” Penelope says to Charlie, gnawing off a piece of squirrel. “There’s something so Hemingway-esque about it, don’t you think?”
Charlie smirks. “I have a feeling this is going to be more Blood Meridian than Old Man and the Sea.”
“Now,” Hank says, raising his fists. “Get your hands up. Make sure your thumbs are outside of your fists, otherwise you’ll break them.”
I clench my hands into fists and hold them up in front of my face.
“Just like your left foot, your left hand leads,” Hank instructs me. “You can jab with it”— he demonstrates —“but it’s also for blocking. The right hand, the stronger arm, that’s what you’re going to hit with. All right, so, I’m gonna be you in this scenario. You be the bully or whoever and pretend to take a swipe at me.”
