by Don Calame
The four of us dash ahead, edging the stream, tracking the current. A third bolt of lightning spears through the clouds, followed almost immediately by an earthshaking rumble.
“There doesn’t appear to be much separation,” Charlie hollers, “between the discharge of atmospheric electricity and the rapid expansion of superheated air.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I say.
“The time span between light and sound,” Penelope explains, “suggests that we are in dangerously close proximity to the lightning. We need to get away from the stream. Electricity travels extremely swiftly through water. If lightning strikes nearby, it could make its way to us in a hurry.”
“Over there.” Hank points across the stream. “It looks like there’s a crevice in the side of the hill. We could hide in there.”
Hank steps on a rock in the middle of the stream, using his walking stick for balance, and makes his way to the other side. Penelope, Charlie, and I follow his lead.
BOOM!
A blinding blast of light explodes directly in front of us, the ground trembling as sparks fly everywhere.
“Holy shit!” Penelope screams, covering her ears.
“Hurry!” Hank bellows, waving us forward. “We’re almost there!”
There are big wisps of smoke snaking around a bush just up ahead. I can smell the wet, singed grass and hear the crackle of burning leaves through the ringing in my ears.
The four of us clamber up the rocks toward the fissure in the hill. My foot slips and Hank grabs my arm just before I take a tumble.
“Thanks,” I croak, a jolt of adrenaline racing through my veins.
The fissure didn’t look so big from a hundred yards away, but up close it’s almost like a tall triangular cave.
“Back to the womb,” Charlie announces as he steps into the vagina-shaped crevice.
I lean against the side of the cave entrance and stare out at the sheets of rain swooshing down. I am exhausted. Drenched to the bone. And so, so sick of these brushes with death.
“We need to strip,” Charlie says, starting to peel off his wet shirt. “Immediately. Naked and dry is much safer than wet and clothed.”
Penelope pulls a face as she hugs herself. “Nice try, Charlie. That kind of chicanery might work on the vacuous girls at your school; however, those of us with above-bovine intelligence aren’t so easily inveigled.”
“Barely above,” Charlie says. “And don’t flatter yourself. What I’m talking about here is avoiding becoming hypothermic. Did you not listen to Max when we first arrived? Damp and cold do not mix well.” Charlie kicks off his shoes and starts to tug off his socks and pants. “A person’s core body temperature will drop much more rapidly if the skin remains moist. And your skin will remain moist if you stubbornly decide to keep your clothes on.” He hops around, a soggy jean leg stuck on the end of his foot, which sort of detracts from his air of superiority.
“I am not getting naked, Charles,” Penelope insists. “No matter how much scientific argot you fling at me. So, I suppose I’ll be the first one to die.”
“Promises, promises,” Charlie says.
Hank intervenes. “I think underwear is probably fine.”
“Underwear I’ll do,” Penelope says, yanking down her sweatpants. “We’ve basically see each other in our underwear already, anyway. Though, at that time the cover of night kindly spared me the sight of too much pale, pimply flesh. I suppose this isn’t so different.”
But as it turns out, there’s a huge difference between basically seeing someone in her underwear in the pale moonlight and actually seeing someone in her underwear in the full light of day.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t say this, but thank God I’m freezing cold.
Hank levels a disapproving gaze at me and Charlie — our mouths agape — then takes off his drenched shirt, his muscled chest coated with dark hair. He starts to wring the water out onto the ground.
“Mr. L-Langston,” Charlie says, his teeth chattering. “Shouldn’t we c-conserve that? Rainwater is the p-purest water we’re going to find out here. We should each d-drink what we can.”
“Yes. Right.” Hank looks down, embarrassed by the dripping, twisted shirt in his hands. “Of course.” He shakes his head. “What was I thinking?” He raises the shirt above his head and squeezes the last trickle of water into his mouth.
Charlie and Penelope do the same with their wet garments. My eyes are glued to Penelope, the water drizzling down her chin, her neck. Good God, I never realized how erotic drinking wrung-out T-shirt water could be . . .
“So!” I cough and spin away, pretending to be shy. “What about a fire?” I ask over my shoulder, inching off my wet sweatpants and buying myself some time to get things under control. “I mean, you know, a fire would be good, right?” Come on, now. At ease, soldier! “To keep warm. And . . . you know . . . our clothes aren’t going to dry on their own.”
“I concur,” Charlie says. “But since we don’t have the sun’s rays to focus with my camera’s biconvex lens”— he shoots Penelope a contemptuous look —“I’m thinking that a drill and bow is probably our most practical option right now.” He looks to Hank. “Am I correct in that assessment, Mr. Langston?”
“Uhh, yeah,” Hank says, nodding. “Bow and drill. Absolutely. You know how to do that one, or do you need me to demonstrate?”
Charlie begins unlacing one of his boots. “If memory serves, we need a bow, which I can fashion from a flexible stick and my shoelace, like Max showed us. Also a firm, straight stick to employ as a drill and a flat wooden base to stabilize the mechanism.”
“Perfect,” Hank says. “You get started on that. The rest of us will try to rustle up some sort of kindling.”
I watch Hank disappear into the dark recesses of the cave, Penelope following close behind. Just a few minutes ago, it had seemed kind of spooky back there, hiding all sorts of creepy-crawly things.
But suddenly it looks like some sort of Tunnel of Love or Temptation Cove. I picture myself accidentally brushing up against Penelope in the dark, maybe “stumbling” and reaching out to catch myself and — oops, sorry! — grabbing two glorious handfuls of —
No! That is not — No!
I fish around in my pile of clothes to find Baby Robbie’s sweater and clutch it to my chest, chanting Erin’s name under my breath like an invocation as I slowly step into the depths of cave.
“Tell us something we don’t know about you,” Penelope says, turning to Charlie.
“Me?” he says. “Why me?”
“We’ll all go,” Penelope says. “It’s just something to kill time.”
She scoots up closer to the fire, hugging her naked knees to her chest.
I rub Baby Robbie’s sweater. The soggy wool did its trick, keeping me from any bodily contact — accidental or otherwise — with Penelope while we searched the recesses of the cave for kindling. Now if it can just keep me grounded until our clothes dry . . .
“I’d rather not,” Charlie says.
Penelope groans. “OK, fine, I’ll go first. Here’s something you don’t know about me: I’ve had a short story published online at the Literary Quadrangle.”
Charlie scoffs. “I didn’t realize this was meant to be a brag-a-thon. In that case, here’s something you don’t know about me: I actually had to lobby my parents not to skip me ahead two grades. I felt it would make my peers uncomfortable, to be overshadowed by someone two years younger than they.”
“I know that,” I say.
Charlie slaps his forehead dramatically. “That’s right! Dan already knows that. Silly me.”
Penelope rolls her eyes. “OK, fine, here’s another one: I once kissed a girl at a party on a dare. Though maybe that counts as bragging, too, since I’m guessing you’re the only one here who’s never experienced the soft, warm pleasure of a lady’s osculation.”
Danger! Danger! Must. Not. Think. About. Hot. Girl-on-girl. Osculation.
Whatever that mea
ns.
And yet there she is: Penelope dressed as slave Leia making out with another girl in a Red Sonja chain-mail bikini.
“There, now,” Penelope says. “That isn’t so hard, is it?”
Speak for yourself. I shift uncomfortably on the cave floor.
“Now, how about you try again, Charlie,” she says.
“How about we contemplate the virtues of silence instead?” Charlie offers. “Challenging as that may be for some of us.”
“I’ll go next,” Hank interjects. “Just to keep things civil.” He adjusts himself so he’s sitting cross-legged. “OK. Something you all don’t know about me. Let’s see . . . How about this? The first time I met Dan”— he looks over at me —“I was a nervous wreck. I was terrified he wouldn’t like me and that he might be upset because his mom and I were engaged. But he was great about it. And he’s been great ever since. I really lucked out.”
I slide my eyes away.
“That’s interesting,” Charlie says. “You say you want Dan to like you, and yet you don’t seem to like him. Isn’t that strange?”
Hank frowns. “What do you mean? I like him very much.” He turns to me. “You think I don’t like you?” He sounds genuinely hurt.
“Oh, it’s nothing Dan said,” Charlie explains. “Just an observation.” Charlie shakes his head. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. Let’s just forge ahead with this asinine game of Penelope’s.”
“No,” Hank says. “I’d like to know why you think I don’t like Dan. What these so-called observations are.”
Oh, Hank. Poor, foolish Hank.
“Well, if you must know . . .” Charlie begins counting on his fingers: “Your mistreatment and eventual misplacement of his Baby-Real-A-Lot doll. The embarrassing comments about Dan’s body odor. The negativity about his artwork. The humiliating, vociferous reaction to Dan’s carsickness. And then, of course, the vicious strike to his nose. From an outsider’s perspective, it could appear that you’re harboring some unconscious anger toward Dan. Or jealousy, perhaps. He is, after all, a rival for Sarah’s affection.”
Charlie gives me a significant look. I sigh internally, no longer as excited to play my part as I was when we first concocted this plan.
I look at Hank, attempting to appear wounded. “Is it true? Are you angry at me?”
“Of course not!” Hank’s face and neck are bright red, a noticeable difference from his pale chest and shoulders. “Those were accidents and misunderstandings and —”
“Perhaps,” Charlie says. “But if you believe Sigmund Freud, there are no such things as accidents.”
Penelope rolls her eyes. “He was talking about slips of the tongue, you imbecile.”
“Listen,” Hank says, leaning toward me, an intense look in his eyes. “I promised to tell you the truth, and here it is: When your mom first told us about this trip, I wasn’t exactly . . . thrilled. I thought it would be kind of awkward, since we hardly knew each other. And hard work, too — not the greatest way to spend a week’s vacation time. However, the closer we got to the date and the more time I spent with you, the more excited I got about it.” He shakes his head. “All these things Charlie listed — they’re crazy! Even if I did hate you — and I don’t! — there’s no way I could’ve planned even half of that stuff. Nobody could. It’s just been a run of bizarrely bad luck. Honestly.”
I wrench my gaze from his, guilt and shame eating away at my insides. My eyes happen to catch Penelope’s. She’s staring at me with a look that’s almost as intense as Hank’s — and as much as I wish I could pretend it’s because she’s suddenly overcome by lust, I can tell it’s not that.
“Let’s just forget it, OK?” I say. “Charlie’s just trying to make trouble. It’s what he does.”
“I beg to differ,” Charlie says indignantly. “I was simply pointing out the facts and my observations.”
“I think we’ve had enough of your observations,” I say firmly. “My turn. Something you don’t know about me . . .” I look down at my wrist. The dead ID bracelet. Dad’s Timex. “This watch”— I tap the glass face —“was my father’s.”
“This is not news, Daniel,” Charlie says. “At least not to me.”
Penelope turns on him. “For someone who didn’t want to participate, you sure have a lot to say about everyone else’s contributions.”
“It’s not whose watch it is,” I say, “but why I wear it, even though it hasn’t worked in years. That’s what you don’t know.” I take the watch off and let it dangle from my fingers. The black leather band is cracked and peeling, the buckle worn smooth. The time is permanently stopped at 11:09 and the date frozen on the seventh. “He wore this watch all the time. I always remember seeing it there on his hairy wrist. When he taught me how to play chess. When he dealt out a game of gin rummy. When he drunkenly read Dr. Seuss to me at bedtime. It’s a piece of junk, really. Anytime anyone complimented him on it, he’d say, ‘This old thing? I’ve had it for thirty years. Cost me two bucks at a garage sale. Proves you don’t have to spend a lot to get a lot.’” I can hear his voice clear as day. “It still smells like his aftershave, too.” I bring the watch band to my nose and breathe in the ghost of Dad’s scent. “A little bit, anyway. Inspired by Polo. ‘Why buy the real thing when the cheaper imitation smells exactly the same? A lot of suckers in this world, let me tell you.’”
“So you wear it to remember him,” Hank says. “That’s nice.”
I shake my head. “No. I wear it to remember him leaving. It fell off his wrist when he flung his garbage bag full of stuff over his shoulder — hit the driveway hard and stopped working. When I picked it up and tried to give it back to him, he told me to chuck it, that he was going to get himself a new watch. ‘A new watch for a new life.’” I look down at the scratched face. “Every time I look at this, I’m reminded of the exact day, hour, minute, and second when I last saw him.” I wrap the band around my wrist and reattach it. “How many people in your life can you say that about?”
The cave is quiet, the only sounds the rain coming down outside and the crackle of the fire.
Hank clears his throat. “Wow, Dan. I’m . . . really sorry.”
“That’s some heavy shit,” Penelope says, then turns to Charlie. “You see? Dan just poured his heart out now. Are you really going to sit there and not contribute anything?”
“Nope, not gonna sit here,” Charlie says, leaping to his feet and scrabbling backward. “And neither should you!”
Penelope turns to see what he’s staring at —
And lets out an ear-piercing shriek.
“Don’t make any sudden movements!” Hank says, his hands and arms outstretched.
But it’s too late. I’m already springing away, and Penelope is frantically crab-crawling backward, kicking sand and pebbles in the direction of the huge rattlesnake that’s slithering toward her, its sharp fangs bared, shaking its rattle like a pissed-off toddler.
“Get it away, get it away!” Penelope cries, her eyes filled with terror. She scrambles backward but can’t get to her feet.
I want to help, but my legs know that I hate snakes. The way they freakily glide across the ground. The way they can hold so still, then suddenly strike. The way they can kill you with one bite.
The snake coils, its tongue flicking, its dead doll eyes focused squarely on Penelope.
“Hi-ya!” Charlie shouts, leaping through the air, wielding a flaming stick like a saggy-pantsed ninja.
He swats at the snake.
But completely misses.
“Oh shit,” Charlie squeaks, crumpling to the ground. “That’s not how I pictured that going.”
The snake whips around on Charlie, shaking its tail like crazy, its head bobbing and weaving.
And then the snake attacks — shooting out toward Charlie at superfast speed, its mouth unnaturally wide.
“No!” Penelope cries, her hand covering her mouth.
Charlie raises his branch in defense.
Mir
aculously, the snake bites the stick, knocking it from Charlie’s grasp.
And that’s when Penelope, in one fell swoop, grabs a stick, bounds over the fire, and spears the serpent right in the head.
Amazing! I couldn’t have drawn it better.
“Oh-my-Christ-thank-you!” Charlie pants. “You saved my life.”
Penelope shrugs. “You saved mine first.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Charlie struggles to his feet and brushes off his hand. “You actually killed the thing.”
She smiles. “Just add it to the long list of things that I can do better than you.” She hoists the snake aloft with her stick. “Now, who’s hungry?”
The morning sun is warm on the skin, its bright rays drying up yesterday’s deluge, filling the air with a fresh, clean smell.
The world around us is quiet, like everything is taking a breath. There is the occasional whisper of wind through the wild grass. The odd bird tweet here and there. But mostly stillness from the natural world.
The same cannot be said for Charlie and Penelope.
It seems saving each other’s lives was a real bonding experience for them. They’re still insulting one another, calling each other names, but now it’s “mewling gudgeon” and “fusty codpiece,” delivered with exaggerated Shakespearean accents and a lot of giggling.
“You, my lad,” Penelope says, waving her hand in the air, “are a sanguine coward, a bed-presser, a horseback-breaker. Away, you moldy rogue! You filthy bung. Away!”
“Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!” Charlie counters. “Hag of all despite. To spend another moment beside you, I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, and with the other fling it at thy face.”
They fold over in hysterics, like they’ve just told the world’s funniest jokes.
So much for opposites attracting. They’re basically falling in love with their doppelgängers.
I try to tamp down the flare of jealousy, fondling Baby Robbie’s sweater for strength. But I swear, if Charlie ends up getting with Penelope this trip and all I wind up with is a puffy-paged sketchbook, a poison ivy rash on my ass, and Post-Traumatic Hank Disorder, I am going to have to strangle someone.
