Fear of Frying jj-9

by Jill Churchill

  Once they'd made themselves at home, Jane said, "It's getting dark and I'm starving. Where do we eat?”

  Shelley consulted the contents of the envelope she'd picked up at the main lodge. "Dinner tonight-uh-ho — in about fifteen minutes. We better get moving." She stepped out on the deck overlooking the woods. "It's getting cold, too. Bundle up and let's walk."

  “Okay, but how will we find our way back? By Braille?"

  “I've got flashlights," Shelley said complacently.

  Jane rolled her eyes. "Of course you do." Even after years and years of being neighbors and best friends, Jane was still surprised frequently at Shelley's organizational skills. She was always prepared for almost anything. She probably had a first aid kit concealed somewhere on her person.

  And a ham radio.

  They put on their heavy coats and headed for the lodge. Jane was surprised at how brisk it was. The day had been unusually warm for fall, but as soon as the sun started going down, the thick forest seemed to extinguish the heat. And the sun went down very quickly indeed. In the five minutes it took them to reach the main lodge, it became almost entirely dark. As they approached the building, a creature scuttled across the road in front of them. "Oh, look! A raccoon!" Jane exclaimed, turning to Shelley, who had gone as pale as vanilla pudding.

  “I don't like wild animals," Shelley said in a very small voice.

  “Ah! A chink in the armor," Jane said with a laugh. "Just imagine them as school principals or bank managers or any of the people you regularly terrorize."

  “Can't," Shelley said. "They have fur."

  “Then imagine them bald," Jane said briskly.

  Shelley shuddered. "A bald raccoon? Yuck!”

  As they stepped onto the porch, Jane said, "Actually, that grocery store manager who didn't want to let you use expired coupons looked a bit raccoonish, and you didn't have a bit of trouble bullying him.”

  Jane pushed open the front door and they were enveloped in warmth, light, and the delicious odors of dinner. A fire crackled in a big central fireplace in the lobby, adding a hint of woodsmoke to the mix.

  “Ah! You must be Mrs. Jeffry and Mrs. Nowack," a voice boomed. "I'm sorry we weren't here to greet you.”

  The speaker was a tall, lanky man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He was wearing a red-andblack-checked flannel shirt, jeans, and suspenders with Santa Claus faces. He looked a bit Santaish himself, in spite of being thin. He had long, thick gray hair and a fluffy beard. "I'm Benson Titus. My wife, Allison, and I own the resort."

  “Glad to meet you, Benson. I'm Jane and this is Shelley. This is a wonderful place," Jane said. "We were a bit surprised by the bathroom in our cabin.”

  He laughed, showing a spectacular mouthful of capped teeth, all of which were a bit too white. "We like our own comforts, Allison and I do, so we figured the guests would, too. Studied up on it and discovered that in most families, the wife picks the place to stay, and women tend to place a high value on good bathrooms. Cost the earth for all that fancy plumbing, but it did wonders for business."

  “But isn't it going to be. . well, sort of wasted on a bunch of high-school kids?" Shelley asked, mindful of their purpose in being there.

  “Oh, the kids won't stay in those cabins. There are only ten of them and they're too remote to keep a close eye on. The kids will stay in the dorms. The cabins will be for the staff. I'll show you around the whole place in the morning. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes, right through there," he added, pointing to large double French doors across the lobby. "Look around, make yourselves at home.”

  The dining room was enormous, with a high, wood-beamed ceiling and long, sturdy wooden picnic-type tables, laid with crisp blue-and-white-checkered oilcloths. There were wooden benches with low backs rather than chairs. Another big fireplace was on the left wall, and the right and back walls, like the far wall in their cabin, were solid windows, with, they later discovered, a view over the lake and woods.

  Only one table was set and occupied, that nearest the fireplace. A burly man with blond hair going to gray and in clothing that might have made him look like a lumberjack, had it not been so obviously newly purchased, was sitting at one end. The woman at the table was sitting as far from him as she could. She'd even turned away and had her legs stretched out to the fire. She was reading a battered paperback book, holding it very close to her face.

  The man stood up as Jane and Shelley approached. "Well, I thought Marge and I were going to have to eat by ourselves. I'm John Claypool — Claypool Motors — and this is my brother Sam's wife, Marge. I usually call her Midge, 'cause she's such a cute little thing.”

  Marge turned around, put down her book, and gave a weak smile that seemed to indicate that she'd heard this line several hundred times and never once enjoyed it.

  “Marge and I know each other," Shelley said, then introduced herself and Jane. "Are we the only ones here?"

  “My husband's on his way," Marge said. "He just had a couple business calls to make first. And two cars passed me on the road as I was walking down here." She had a very soft, sweet voice with the slightest hint of southern accent. She was a very pretty woman in an innocuous way. Blond-going-to gray hair swept back from her face and held with old-fashioned hair clips, perfect, fair skin, very little makeup, and neutral-colored clothing — khaki slacks, white sweater and blouse, pale green scarf. Jane thought the one word that described her best was "clean." Or maybe "tidy." It was a toss-up.

  Before anyone could launch a conversational gambit, another man entered the room and Marge went to meet him. "Sam, this is Shelley Nowack and her friend Jane Jeffry.”

  Unlike the rest of them, who were dressed for the outdoors, Sam Claypool had on dress slacks, a crisp white shirt, navy blue tie, and a blazer. If Jane hadn't known better, she'd have sworn he was an accountant, not a car dealer. He, too, was tidy — but too much so. His hair was a little too short, the creases in his slacks were perfect, his handshake was cool and impersonal. He needed rumpling, Jane thought. He'd come to dinner with a legal pad and hand-held calculator, which didn't strike Jane as especially sociable, even though she herself, like Marge, always had a paperback book somewhere on her person.

  “Where's Eileen?" John asked.

  Sam looked around. "I don't know. She was with me a minute ago." He had already sat down at the table and was punching in numbers on his calculator and making notes on the legal pad. Shelley was studying him ominously, as if considering giving a short lecture on social niceties.

  Eileen Claypool, John's wife, turned up a moment later. "Sorry, dears, I had to take a potty break. The bathrooms here are amazing!" She was a perfect match for her husband — loud, oversized, and cheerful, like him. She had big blond hair, a huge, toothy smile, and was swathed about with an extraordinary number of accessories. Besides innumerable layers of clothing, she wore three necklaces, rings on every finger, a large purse, and two tote bags. "What a wonderful place this is. I'm Eileen. Who are you?”

  Jane and Shelley introduced themselves again. Eileen proved to be a "hand holder," hanging on to them while the cloud of her expensive perfume encircled them. "Oh, you're those friends of Suzie Williams, aren't you?"

  “Friends and neighbors," Shelley said, trying in vain to disengage her hand. "How do you know Suzie?"

  “I've got a little dress shop. Just a hobby, really. Large sizes. I send a lot of my ladies to Suzie to get fitted for" — she lowered her voice to a muted bellow—"undergarments." Suzie, a big, gorgeous, vulgar platinum blonde whom Shelley and Jane were crazy about, was the head clerk of the lingerie section at the department store located in the neighborhood mall.

  “Here, let's sit down. I want to know all about you ladies," Eileen said, dragging them over to the table. "Oh, Marge dear, I didn't even see you there. Got your books, I see. Marge always has her nose in a book," she explained. "Can't see how she does it. Reading puts me straight to sleep. Always has.”

  They were spared the full force of Ei
leen's attention by the arrival of yet another camper. "Oh, good, you haven't started eating yet! Hi, everybody. I'm Bob Rycraft. Mrs. Jeffry. . Mrs. Nowack, how you doin'? I didn't know you'd be here. Mr. Claypool.. Mr. Claypool, good to see you guys. I don't think I've met your wives.”

  While yet more introductions were conducted, Jane watched Bob move around the table. She didn't know him well, but had always liked him. He was a big, handsome, tawny man in his late thirties who moved with the lazy grace of a lion and had formerly been an athlete — football, Jane thought. Or maybe it was baseball. He and his wife and four little girls had moved to their suburb five years ago. Bob ran an apparently successful mail-order business that sold specialty paper products to companies all over the world. He was an extremely civic-minded guy, coaching at the YMCA and several schools, serving as Parks and Rec chairman on the city council and generously donating envelopes, packing boxes, and such to practically every good cause in town.

  “So how are all those girls of yours?" Shelley asked him when they were all seated.

  “Girls, girls, girls. I've got so darned many of them, I lose track," he said with a grin. "If we have any more, we're going to run out of names and have to start numbering them.”

  Shelley smiled back. Even though he was a man designed by nature to be father to mobs of rough-and-tumble boys, he was known to be besotted by his flock of dainty blond daughters.

  “So who was the guy sneaking around outside?" Bob asked his table-mates.

  “Sneaking?" Jane asked.

  “Yeah, little scrawny guy. Was looking in the window and leaped away like a deer when he spotted me coming."

  “Must of been Lucky Smith," Benson Titus said, coming from the kitchen with an enormous tray of food. He set out a platter of fried chicken, an enormous bowl of mashed potatoes, a giant pitcher of gravy, and two good-sized bowls of green beans on the table. "Start on this," he said, leaving to fetch another tray with the cornbread, butter, coleslaw, and a tossed salad. When he'd distributed the food, he sat down at an empty spot at the table. "Yeah, Lucky Smith is our local hunter thug who saw the light and turned environmental thug. He keeps a close eye on us here. But he's not dangerous, just a nuisance. Lucky grew up in these parts, a real good ol' boy, slaughtering everything he could hook or shoot.

  “He got religion about the same time a group of enviro-Nazis started up in the county. Sorry. My wife says I shouldn't use that word, but sometimes it's the only one that fits. Anyhow, Lucky's decided it's his mission in life to keep an eye on the resort.”

  Shelley passed Jane the beans and whispered, "Trouble in paradise."

  “Makes paradise more interesting," Jane replied.

  Three

  “So what's this Lucky person do?" Marge Clay- pool said timidly, glancing around and seeming to notice for the first time that two sides of the room were windows with utter darkness beyond them.

  “Nothing much," Benson said with a reassuring smile. "He likes to gather a crowd and rant about how he used to be a hunter and fisherman — I won't spoil your dinner with any of the details — but he came to his senses and God told him to devote his life to returning nature to the indigenous residents."

  “The Indians?" Jane asked.

  “Oh, no. He says they came here from someplace else, too. No, he means plants and animals. A real Tree Hugger. But like most fanatics, he considers himself the exception. He carries on about the tourist trade bringing in all the people who wreck the land, but he doesn't make any effort to remove his own sorry carcass from the area.”

  Shelley had put down her fork. It was a dangerous sign, when Shelley put down her silverware in the middle, let alone the beginning, of a meal, Jane thought.

  “You don't believe in saving the wildlife?" Shelley asked in a dangerously quiet voice.

  Benson put up his hands as if to ward off an attack. "I surely do. That's why we left Chicago, because we love the wilderness. I've never shot a gun at any living thing. And I've never caught a fish that wasn't intended for eating. But I'm intolerant of fanatics.”

  Shelley picked her fork back up and nodded approval.

  “Speaking of animals, there's really an enormous variety of them in the area," Benson said brightly, diverting the conversation. "In each of your cabins there are several handbooks. Mammals, fish, birds, and wildflowers, plus we have a little library next to the front desk where you can borrow books about geology, climate, natural resources, and history of the area. Please feel free to consult any of the books and take them to your cabins if you like. One of the things we're doing tomorrow is viewing a film about the natural history of this part of Wisconsin. Sounds dull, but I promise you'll enjoy it.”

  Jane noticed that Eileen Claypool had been dividing her attention almost equally between eating and watching Bob Rycraft eat. Understandable. Watching Bob Rycraft do anything was a pleasant activity. Now Eileen tore herself away from both activities to ask, "What else will we be doing tomorrow?"

  “Anything you want," Benson said. "We've got lots of things planned, but you're all free to participate or skip them."

  “We're here on behalf of the school board and the city council," Bob said. "I imagine we'll all want to participate." Then, apparently thinking that sounded too much like an order, he added, "Or won't we?”

  There was a noncommittal murmur around the table.

  “There's a real country breakfast in the morning," Benson said. "We go a little light on lunch, so you might want to stoke up in the morning anytime between eight and ten. At ten I'll give the official tour of the grounds and facilities. It would be a good idea for everybody to attend that."

  “We certainly will," Shelley said. She made no bones about it being an order. Her tone had the precision and power of a dentist's drill. This time the murmur was of agreement.

  Benson stared at her for a moment, collected himself, and went on. "We'll show the film at four in the afternoon. You can use the time after lunch for anything you'd like. Hiking around and exploring, relaxing and reading, or just taking a nap. Then tomorrow evening, we'll start some of the demonstrations of what we intend to provide. I'll be doing an outdoor cooking lesson at the main campfire area. All this is typed up with a more detailed map than you got when you checked in. I'll make sure you all have it before you leave the lodge tonight."

  “Are we it? The whole group?" Sam Claypool asked. He'd been eating his dinner in a picky, preoccupied manner, as if his mind were miles away.

  “No," Benson said. "A Mr. and Mrs. Flowers are coming. They called and said they'd had some car trouble, but should be here shortly. And the day after tomorrow the whole county's been invited to participate in classes if they want. That'll be the big day, with instructors and demonstrations. I've already got reservations for fifty for lunch, and there will be others — the ones who don't believe in reservations," he added with a broad smile.

  “Liz Flowers?" John Claypool asked. He'd shoveled down everything on his plate and was taking seconds. "Sold her a car once. Lady drives a hard bargain. Hope it's not that car that's broken down."

  “Liz is the president of the school board," Bob Rycraft explained to Benson. "I gotta warn you, she's expressed some doubts about this plan.”

  Benson nodded. "I thought so. She was pretty cool on the phone.”

  Jane realized for the first time that this was more than a vacation. She, like the rest of them, had a job to do. So far, she'd just accepted that a summer-school session here was a good idea. "What kind of doubts?" she asked Bob.

  “Oh, real practical things. Liability insurance, transportation costs, the availability of medical help because of the isolation," Bob said. "Important to consider, of course, but I'm sure it can all be worked out. The important thing is to get the kids out of their easy, comfortable suburban life for a while. Away from drugs, rap music, television, video games — all of that. I really believe you can do any child a world of good by bringing them back to nature — the real world — if only for a week or two. Gives them a
sense of their own history, their place in the whole scheme—" He broke off and grinned. "Sorry. I'm lecturing."

  “That's okay," Shelley said. "It's why we’re here. To share viewpoints, as well as learn about the facility."

  “I think you've got something there," John Claypool said to Bob. "When Sam and I were kids, our folks sent us to camp for a couple summers and it was great!”

  Sam, precise and tidy in his blazer, tie, and city-neat hair, just cocked an eyebrow.

  John caught the look and said, "Yeah, I know you didn't like it as well as I did, but you were always a brainy kid, more interested in schoolwork than a good tussle with the boys."

  “The 'boys' were savages," Sam said coldly.

  Sam's wife, Marge, leaped in to avert controversy, as if by long habit. "This camp plan isn't just for boys, is it?" she asked too brightly.

  Bob Rycraft answered. "We're hoping for two sessions. Either one for boys and one for girls, or possibly two mixed sessions — depending on a lot of factors."