Memory Boy (15 page)

My mother and Sarah, heads low, hands over their ears, kept pedaling at high speed. My father and I stared at each other.

“You all right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You look kind of white,” he said.

I laughed once. Sort of a single, strange bark of a laugh.

“You didn't kill anybody, did you?” Sarah breathed. She risked a look back.

“No, we didn't kill anybody,” I said. “A couple of motorcycles, maybe.”

My father laughed, and we high-fived each other.

“I can't believe I hit that tire,” he said.

“Me neither,” I said. “I aimed for the front and hit the rear!”

Adrenaline pumped through me. I held my gun aloft. “So,” I said to my mother. “Our family doesn't do guns?”

She looked at me, then at my father.

“I hate these times,” she said softly. She turned away as if she couldn't bear to look at us right now.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON WE WERE
dragging, particularly my father and I. The adrenaline rush of scaring off the motocrooks was gone. Into its place had trickled a strangely depressed feeling—at least I felt it, but I could sense it in my father, too. Right after the encounter, we had whooped and held up our guns like big-time terminators. Now we were quiet.

The wind was switching too.

“There's a campground not far ahead in the Chippewa National Forest,” I said, checking the map. We were about fifteen miles east of Bemidji, and no more than twenty-five or so from Kurz's cabin. Alleged cabin, as my mother would have said.

“I'm ready,” my father breathed.

The entrance to Norway Beach Campground curved between tall, thick pine trees, and led to big Lake Winnibigoshish somewhere beyond. There were several sets of footprints—adults' and children's—on the narrow, ashy road. Even Sarah noticed the tracks. Just to be safe, my mother put on “the vest,” and then we pedaled forward between the trees.

As we came around the last curve before the lake, a gate blocked the road. It was crudely made—somebody was a real wood butcher here—from thin boards and bent-over nails. But a gate was a gate. And a guard was a guard. A burly woman with a shotgun slung over her shoulder stepped from behind the trees.

“I thought I'd seen it all,” she said. She blocked the middle of the road as she stared at the
Princess
.

“Good afternoon,” my mother said.

The woman nodded, then looked up. “You're not looking to camp here?”

“Are you a park ranger?” my mother replied.

“In a manner of speaking,” the woman said. She had beefy arms and big hands. Her eyes flickered down my mother's body.

“I ask because this is a national park, right?” Nat said.

“Right,” the guard said. “But these days, well, the real rangers are not around much. So it's first come, first served. And as you can see, we here in the campground are first come.” Behind her, through the trees, I could see dense clusters of motor homes, trailers, and tents, plus patches of gray-blue water beyond.

“Are you saying you're full?” my mother asked.

“That's what I'm saying.”

“We're just looking for one night,” my mother said easily. “Be on our way first thing in the morning.”

The guard glanced at Nat; at her big belly. “Looks like you folks gonna have another mouth to feed pretty soon.”

“That's right,” my mother said. “Another three months or so.”

The guard shrugged. “Okay, one night then. As long as we're clear on that.”

“We're clear,” my father said. His voice sounded tired and flat.

“Then that will be a hundred for the one night.”

“A hundred?” Mother asked.

“Dollars,” the woman said. “Cash.”

“For who?” Mother exclaimed. “Who gets the hundred?”

“Campground management,” the woman said. “Mainly security, night watchmen, that sort of thing. Sometimes we have to weed out undesirables. People who don't fit in, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course,” my mother said, barely keeping her sarcasm in check.

The guard hoisted the gate to one side. “Head over to the far right. Temporary camping. And keep that goat close or else the wild dogs will get her.”

Sarah's eyes widened. We pedaled forward.

“Another mouth to feed,” Nat muttered after we cleared the gate.

“Hey, nice work again, Mom,” I said to her.

She turned to Sarah. “If I'm six months along, that means I'm carrying this for three more months. After that, you're going to start wearing the vest.”

Sarah's eyes widened. “No way!” she said. “I'm too young.”

“Don't ever say that,” my mother said.

An audience of raggedy kids quickly gathered to stare at us and the
Ali Princess
. They watched as we set up tents close alongside the
Princess
. None of them said anything. I leaned my shotgun where everyone passing could see it.

“It's like we're in a Charles Dickens novel,” my mother said.

“Or
Lord of the Flies
,” Sarah replied.

When the world got back to normal, I really did plan to read more.

Two boys, carrying sharp little sticks in their belts, pointed at Emily and grinned at each other. They eased forward, almost within touching distance of the family goat—until Sarah saw them.

“She bites!” Sarah said loudly. The boys jumped back; the other kids laughed at them, and then all of them raced off shouting and chasing.

“I guess they're just kids,” my mother said.

I hoped so. What worried me was their parents. Eyes peeped from other sagging tents and dusty vehicles. The other campers were well settled under tarps and ropes and layers of dust; some had crude swing sets; most of the vehicles had flat tires, and makeshift curtains inside. One big, dusty Chevy Suburban had a hole cut in the top where a small chimney poked through.

“The long-term camping section,” my father observed.

“No kidding,” I replied.

My father, too, kept his gun nearby.

As I worked, I saw Sarah, carrying a plastic bucket, leading Emily behind the
Ali Princess
. The gang of little kids was back; they went with Sarah.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Shut up, Miles,” Sarah said. She ignored the little kids.

“Finish the tent and mind your own business, Miles,” my mother said.

“Sure,” I said, grinning at Sarah. My sister, milking a goat: Someday I would get a picture of this and make sure it got into her high school yearbook.

A few minutes later the tents were done, and so was Emily. Sarah came back carrying a nearly full pail, and Emily, on a short rope, grazed and nibbled at the dusty grass.

“So what do I do with this?” Sarah said; she held up the bucket.

“Warm goat's milk—great!” I said.

My father scratched his beard stubble. “Miles, do we have any extra containers? Something with a lid?” He looked at me.

For an instant I thought he knew—but that was stupid. “One of the water jugs is empty,” I said.

“That will work. Let's pour the milk in there, make sure it's sealed tight, and then we'll put it in the lake.”

“It'll drift away,” my mother said.

“We'll find a stone and string and keep it submerged.”

While Mother watched the campsite, the three of us went down to the lake. We made sure we could see the
Ali Princess
from the shore.

Sarah splashed in first, then dove under. “It's really cold just a few feet down!” Sarah said, gasping as she surfaced. She was a good swimmer. I also noticed that her body actually had some curves. Amazing! Disgusting, kind of. The thought of my little sister someday having a woman's body simply did not add up in my head.

I put a toe in the water. “Yikes!” No way I was going in. I watched, shivering, as Sarah and my father then secured the goat's milk about six feet down, and out of reach of the little kids. They were both good swimmers, and I was impressed: my father and sister actually figuring out how to do something. Maybe there was hope for us after all.

“Aren't you coming in, Miles?” Sarah teased.

“It's too cold!” I called.

“You could use a bath,” she said.

I shrugged. “No. I'm fine.”

“I hate to say this, Miles, but she's right,” my father said. “You are getting a little rank.” He tossed me a bar of soap.

When I took the plunge, I think I shouted underwater. I never believed water could get this cold without becoming ice. Within a minute I was washed, dried, and back shivering by the tents.

“Well, look at you!” my mother said. “You look like a drowned rat—but a clean drowned rat.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You should go for a swim, Mother. Really—the water's very nice.”

“And what do I do with the baby?” she said, hefting her vest.

“Sorry. I forgot.” I really had.

“Don't worry, I'll slip down later and wash up a bit.”

That night Emily kept us up late crying just outside our tent—I swear she sounded like a real baby.

“She's not used to a short rope,” Sarah said.

“Whatever you say, Goat Girl,” I mumbled, and finally drifted off to sleep.

I slept lightly until, much later, I heard a stick snap.

Then silence; someone had paused outside the tent. Sarah snoozed on. Slowly I rolled over and touched the shotgun. It was empty. Then I heard boots—more than two of them—come closer.

I jacked the bolt open and shut on my shotgun. Sticks crackled as boots thudded away.

“What!” Sarah said, waking up confused.

“Nothing,” I said, lowering the shotgun so she didn't see it. “It's okay.”

“Emily?”

“She's fine. Go to sleep.” Sarah collapsed back onto her pillow and was breathing softly again within thirty seconds. I lay where I could look out the tent flap. For good measure I poked the gun barrel a few inches into the night. Moonlight glinted on its steel. I imagined the single dark eye of its muzzle staring out from our tent. With it on guard, gradually I let my eyes close.

In the morning birds chirped. For once there was no radio muttering the usual bad news. I also realized I was alone in the tent. As I crawled out into sunlight, Sarah handed me a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I blinked and rubbed my face. I had slept late. And Sarah, up before me? Handing me hot chocolate? There was a good chance I was dreaming.

The hot chocolate tasted a little odd—kind of thick and woody.

“See—I knew he'd try it!” Sarah began to laugh wildly, and Emily went
“Baaack!”

I looked at the mug.

I looked at Emily.

“Goat's milk cocoa.” Sarah grinned.

My parents and Sarah—how nice of them—were waiting for my verdict before they filled their mugs.

“Mmmm, tasty,” I said, holding back a slight gagging sensation as I took another long sip. As Sarah and Mother made breakfast, I inspected the footprints in the ash. The close-together tracks; the sudden running strides. And the little dry sticks on the ground all around our tent. I didn't remember these sticks from the night before.

My father joined me. “We had visitors last night,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I heard them. One of them stepped on the sticks.” The sticks that had me puzzled.

My father looked back at Mother and Sarah at the campfire. They were talking to some little raggedy kids and giving them some of the leftover hot chocolate.

“Do you remember the
Godfather
movie, the first one?”

“Sure,” I said. He and I used to have
Godfather
movie sessions; once we stayed up all night and watched all five in a row.

“There's a line when Don Corleone says, ‘Women and children can afford to be careless, but men can't,'” he said.

I nodded.

“It's sort of a lame speech. But I thought of it last night. So after dark I got up and put those twigs around our tents.”

I looked at him. I swear he was a foot taller than when we left the city.

At that moment a couple of gaunt, dusty guys in caps wandered over as if to check on the children. “You folks have a good night's sleep?” the taller man asked.

“Just fine. You?” my father asked.

“Sure thing,” he said.

There was silence.

“So you folks moving on today?”