by Leslie Pike
I stay silent because I do think that. I feel the fool.
“I want that to be true, Maxen. But we haven’t had enough time together to know what our boundaries are. I expect you to handle women’s advances the right way, whether I am there or not. And in return, you’ll get the same standard of behavior from me.”
“Do you think I want something else? I agree with you. Where did I go wrong tonight?”
The words make me relax. He’s asking the right question. I lay down against my down pillow and take a breath.
“I felt you left her thinking if you had more time here, you would have met her for lunch.”
As I say it, the words lose their hold on me. It sounds a bit needy. Or juvenile. But he doesn’t make me feel stupid for having said them.
“I hear ya. Can’t say I agree, but if I made you feel like that, I’m sorry. If it ever happens again, I’ll handle it better.”
“Thank you. Even though I hate that she was in your life, I get it. She’s very pretty. I can see why you were attracted.”
I have never fished for compliments in my life. That isn’t what I’m going for. Tonight, I just need a little encouragement and sweet talk.
“I’m forty years old, babe. And you’re in your thirties with a child. We can’t hide from the fact we have pasts.”
“I know.” I say it softly.
“Listen, love. I don’t give a fuck who you were with before. I only care that it’s me now.”
He called me love.
Chapter Twelve
Maxen
The inside of Wes’ house looks like the aftermath of a Black Friday sale. There are discarded items of clothing and things in the wrong places. I see a soda can atop a stack of books on a shelf and a lantern we did not need. But in reality, it’s just ground zero for our “guys trip.” We gathered here an hour ago so we can take off together.
“You have your inhaler, Bing?” I say as we put on our gloves.
I think this would be considered a withering look. “You sound like Mom.”
“Good. I consider that a compliment.”
The final checklist for our big adventure has been checked twice. Think we’re good. I can tell Bing is excited to know he will be on the back of Wes’ Harley. I talked Kim into letting Hunter ride with me. The Smokey Mountains are within reach for a three-day trip. I can’t wait to see how the kids react to our campsite and accommodations. Hell, I’m excited.
James and Dean are carrying a grocery bag full of chips and candy. July said this was how she convinced them that riding in a car with their grandfather has its advantages. Riding on the back of a motorcycle was not going to happen anyway. Asher could have taken James, but that would have left Dean behind. It worked out. Once we get up there, they’ll be able to get rides with their father and me.
So four kids, Asher, Wes, and I make a good group. It’s going to be fun—everything except for the missing Dominique part. Our cell service will be iffy too. It will be seventy-two hours without sex. I’m counting.
“What time are you going over my sister’s tonight?”
July plops down in the club chair next to the picture window. “We’re going to pick up some dinner and be there by five. We didn’t want to make it too late for her.”
“We’ve already picked out our entertainment for the night. I mean, other than the wine we plan on drinking,” Dominique adds.
“Let me guess,” Wes says. “It’s either Grease or The Notebook. Am I right?”
“No, you are not. It’s Dirty Dancing if you must know,” November chuckles.
“Oh, God. If I have to sit through that one more time, I’ll turn into a chick,” Asher says, heading for the door.
That comment prompts a group response, everyone putting their two cents into the mix.
“Hold on!” Wes yells. “We’ve got more important things to do, like head out. Let’s get going.”
Dominique and I take the last few minutes to have a proper, but pure, goodbye. We exchange a PG kiss and hold each other for a quiet moment. Sometimes words say less than silence. When we part, she looks at Bing.
“You have a good time. Listen to the men. Okay?”
She takes him in a tight embrace, and he holds on.
“I love you, honey.”
There’s a hesitation that I understand. Not here, Mom.
Our destination is about four and a half hours away from Smyrna, so that should put us there around two, two-thirty. Time to head out.
I was off by an hour and a half. It’s nearly four, and everyone is ready to get off the bikes. I hadn’t considered the kid factor. Wes’ boys either have the weakest bladders, or they’ve been drinking large amounts of soda. There have been four stops. But what the hell, this is supposed to be a near rule-free few days.
Asher, Wes, and I talked about how much fun it would be for the boys to feel a sense of freedom. From moms mostly. Not that we would say that. They’re lucky to have mothers who care so much and keep their eyes on everything they do. But for just three days, we are going to let them experience the world woman free. They’ll find out for themselves it can be fun, but not something they want to make a habit of.
Wes takes the turn onto Tipi Lane, right past the large sign that reads, Smokey Mountain Tipi Village. I slow the bike to a crawl and feel Hunter shift his weight a little as he leans in.
“Is this where we’re staying?”
I nod and take the winding road leading to the village. We did our due diligence, so I am not surprised how it’s laid out. The few tipis available are conveniently located near a bathhouse, laundry facilities, and a playground.
River sounds reach our ears as we move closer to where we’ll park the bikes. The tipis are tucked away from the rest of the campground but within a stone’s throw of the group fire pit. We rented all three, just to make sure there’s enough space for boys who like to stay up all night and men who want to stretch out and grab a few hours.
Wes pulls over and stops in front of Big Fish, the furthest tipi to the right. Asher pulls the car around to a parking space across Little Bear, the tipi to the left. I take our place right next to Dancing Bear, our home for two nights.
As the motors are shut off, children’s voices can be heard over the sounds of nature. The smell of trees and water and the whole picture reminds me so much of my youth—camping with the family. My one attempt at being a Boy Scout was a dismal failure. Never felt right there. And after the first year, I didn’t return.
Hunter swings a leg over the Harley and runs over to Bing before I’m even upright. The excitement on their faces is cool. James and Dean exit the car and rush to join them.
“Okay, boys, these are our accommodations. Who wants to sleep where?”
I know Dominique would say that’s our first mistake, letting the kids choose. Probably Kim and July as well. I can hear them now. But hey, it’s no big thing.
“Hunter and I call dibs on Big Fish!” Bing says, running to plant his metaphorical flag.
Immediately Dean and James start yelling, “No fair! That’s the one we wanted! Dad!!”
“What the hell difference does it make?” Wes says sternly.
“We want to be big fish, not dancing bears!”
All four kids are trying to beat each other to the desired tipi. They rush through the opening, pushing each other aside. James goes down but gets up and tries to trip Bing. It doesn’t work. Those few years between them give the older boys a distinct advantage. I predict tears will happen somewhere, sometime soon.
“Fuck me,” Wes mutters.
“Whose idea was it to let them pick?” Asher asks, chuckling. “The women could have told you that was a disaster waiting to happen.”
I offer my take. “Just let them all sleep in there. We can take the other two.”
It’s certainly big enough. Queen pillows top beds, leather loveseats that convert to a twin, an extra cot, A/C, and heat. It’s a damn resort in there.
“My father-in-law an
d I will take Dancing Bear; you take Little Bear. We’re not going to get any sleep anyway. You both realize that, right?”
This will forever be known as The Afternoon of a Hundred Fights. It started with the tipis and carried through who got what bed. The pinnacle was when Bing and Hunter wanted to cruise the campground and check out the girls. No little kids allowed. James and Dean were highly insulted and stormed off to do a perimeter check of the camp.
Finally, as dusk settled into night, and we sat around the fire pit, a sort of truce showed up. Brotherhood won the day, or at least the night. Bing showed Dean how to load his marshmallows on the stick he found for him. Hunter and James had a contest to see who could eat the blackest, most unappetizing one. There’s shared laughter. At last. This has been a school in parenthood. I wouldn’t say that out loud because it sounds as stupid as it is. One afternoon does not an education make. But for me, it’s a crash course, at least. Seems like every moment requires good solid decision-making skills, and they could have lasting effects on the child. You can’t fuck up too often. Or at all.
“Let’s make s’mores. Here.” Wes says it as he passes out the Hershey bars and graham crackers. The bag of marshmallows leans against Bing’s low to the ground folding chair.
The looks on their faces show how something so small, so insignificant, can bring happiness to children. I get it, I still look forward to eating this strange concoction, and it’s connected to the memories I have. Some moments in time never fade.
None of us have taken a shower or combed our hair. Six hours in, and we look like Jeremiah Johnson’s posse. Asher has mustard on his sweatshirt, and I have dirt under my nails from whittling marshmallow roasting sticks. Wes ripped his t-shirt, lifting Dean into the tree nearby. So what? Inside my mind, I hear the ape in me call while pounding his chest.
“Let’s tell spooky stories!” Bings says while rotating his burnt marshmallow.
“Yeah!” James adds, with an unconvincing expression.
Dean looks even less excited about any story that can be described as scary, making the older boys more into the idea. But it’s Asher who takes the lead.
“Did I ever tell you boys about my friend’s cousin Margie?”
“No. Is this a real story?” Dean’s voice trails off.
“Could be. It sounds pretty real to me. So here’s what happened. Ever since Margie was a little girl, when she got scared, she would put her hand under her bed, and her dog would lick her hand to comfort her.”
There’s not a soul here who doesn’t see where this is going. Not even the youngest of us.
“Anyway, Margie was about fourteen, just about the same age as Hunter and Bing, and her parents were going out, and they were going to be out late. She was kind of excited to be able to stay home alone. It was a snowy winter night, and she would have as much hot chocolate as she wanted.”
Bing jumps in. “Mom lets me stay alone during the day sometimes.”
“Go on,” James says. “What happened?”
“So Maggie’s parents left around eight. After she watched TV for a few hours, Maggie went to bed. Soon after she turned the light out, she heard a whimpering sound. Almost like a puppy whining. She felt a little afraid, so she put her hand under her bed, and her hand got licked.”
A smile lights one face. Dean’s. Pretty sure the other boys feel a chill up their backs. Asher’s voice lowers, and he makes eye contact with each of the boys for dramatic effect.
“Maggie tries to fall asleep, but she hears the whimpering sound again. So she puts her hand under the bed and gets licked again. Finally, she falls asleep, listening to her dog’s heavy breathing. When she wakes up in the morning, she calls for her dog, and he doesn’t come.” There’s a dramatic pause before he says, “He never comes.”
Eyes are wide now. “What happened to him?” James asks, completely believing his grandfather.
“Well, when Maggie stood up and looked out the window, she saw her dog, dead in the yard in a puddle of blood. And you know what was written in the snow?”
“What?!” three voices say.
“Bright blood-red letters spelled out HUMANS CAN LICK TOO.”
And that’s how Wes ended up with Dean and James in his queen-sized bed in his tipi.
Chapter Thirteen
Dominique
As August turns to September, the passing of time seems to be accelerating. The window of our opportunity is about to shut. So much has happened. The last eight weeks have shaped a new me. We are all works in progress, but my metamorphosis is taking shape quickly.
The strange part is, I don’t have a sense things are moving too fast. They move exactly as they must. Maxen and I have a limited amount of time together before he returns to his real life in California. If this is destiny, those are our limitations. It’s as if the angels are humming the song “If It’s Meant to Be.”
Lots of information has been revealed for both of us. I have seen how he relates to Bing, to children in general. That is number one on my list of must-haves. He’s got the common sense a parent must have to navigate daily life with a child. He’s fair. He’s kind. He doesn’t allow a kid to play him or outlast his resolve.
I can tell Bing likes him and likes me with him. I don’t know exactly what happened on that Smokey Mountain bike trip, but they came back as friends. It’s encouraging to watch how Maxen and Bing interact. There’s no sense of jealousy for my attention from either of them. I would not allow that to happen. My priority will always be my son, but I can see how fitting in a man I love would be a wonderful thing for both Bing and me.
As I gather the condiments and put them on a tray, my mind is on the future. Looking out my kitchen window, I see Hunter and Bing carrying out their assignment. McFly and Cali stand stiffly on the lawn, accepting their fate. It’s bath day. We found it was easier to suds them up at the same time and rinse them off with the garden hose. Besides, when Cali does her shake off, whether it be soap or water, it carries at least six feet away.
I like the look of Maxen standing at the barbecue, wearing shorts and a sleeveless T, flipping the burgers while watching the boys. But it’s his arms I’m most interested in. God, he has some great guns. He catches me looking and smiles. Flexing his biceps for my enjoyment. He knows me well already.
While the boys are busy and not looking at us, I give my man a quick flash of my boobs. His mouth opens, then when he’s sure he’s not being observed, he wiggles his tongue at the sight. My nipples harden with the thought.
Picking up the tray, I walk out the open French doors.
“There she is. The burgers are ready.”
Maxen turns off the grill and loads the burgers onto a plate.
“Boys! Finish up and come eat lunch.”
The dogs have picked up the scent of meat, and Cali especially is straining at Hunter’s hold. Bing sprays the water over McFly's back and undercarriage and lets him loose to shake it off. It always has to be this way, Cali rinsed off first. We did it once the other way, and a rinsed McFly got sprayed with his friend’s suds. Now it’s Cali’s turn.
“Okay, Cali, you’re clean,” Hunter says.
But what follows doesn’t escape my eyes. Before he releases the dog, Hunter kisses the top of her head. I turn to Maxen to see if he’s watching and listening. He is. I hoped the reaction to the death of his own beloved dog in the accident was going to soften, and it has.
I’ve got to give it to my child, who made all the difference. One afternoon Bing called him out when he saw Hunter ignoring McFly’s attention. The dog’s offer doesn’t happen that often, and my boy pointed it out. From that point on, Hunter changed his attitude. Sometimes peer pressure is a positive thing.
Both boys have been good for each other, beyond their shared interest in music and girls. Even though they attend the same school, they were never friends. It’s a double junior high class, and they only shared breaks. I’ve already heard some mumblings about how cool eighth grade is going to be. I’m encouraged
for them both, as it begins shortly.
Cali runs to Maxen’s side as he lifts the plate of burgers above his head. Unfortunately, the dog waits till he is nearby to shake his large, wet body.
“Cali! No!” I say, turning my face.
“Girl! Get out of here!”
McFly joins the group as the boys take their seats. He takes a seat at Maxen’s feet, clearly identifying the person most likely to share his burger.
As we pass around the catsup and pickles, I see Maxen give my dog a little bite. Then one for Cali, who takes his place on the other side of his human’s chair.
“What? This is perfectly all right,” Maxen says, catching my stare.
“That’s what I tell her. It’s not like we’re giving them a roast!” Bing adds.
I pretend I don’t know the answer as I pushback. “Let’s see, who went to veterinary school and got a degree in caring for animals? Oh yeah, it’s me!”
Laughter is the response I get from all three of them. I can’t help but smile at being outnumbered.
“Okay. You’re right. Don’t give them any more, Bing,” Maxen says with a serious expression.
“What? Me? You’re the one who started it!”
My child gets the joke. He punches Maxen in the arm for emphasis.
“Ow! Well, maybe it was me. I can’t remember.”
I’m outgunned, but it’s not a losing battle. My dog will not have more than the occasional human treat. Otherwise, we will have a Tinkerbelle on our hands, and I lose whatever credibility I have. Just because my men argue the point does not mean I’m changing behaviors. And neither will my child.
“Let’s talk about next weekend,” I say, putting a scoop of quinoa salad on my plate.
“I can’t believe we don’t get to go,” Hunter says with a hint of dejection.
