Dan Versus Nature (28 page)

“Wow,” I say. “Good times.”

“It was depressing,” Hank says, flatly. “It was like I was a ghost. Just sort of lingering around him. He never stopped me from coming on the jogs. But he didn’t encourage it, either — or even acknowledge it, really. It was just sort of . . . I don’t know . . . like I wasn’t there. That’s about the best I can describe it. I kept at it for almost a month. I figured he’d have to talk to me eventually, right? Ask me how I’m doing? Discuss an interesting news item? But no. Not a word.” He looks at me, a bruising in his eyes. “Kind of pathetic, huh?”

“I probably would have given up after the first day,” I answer.

“I probably should have.”

“Maybe he just liked being alone,” I say. “Maybe he liked the quiet before the day started, like you said — the peacefulness, when everyone else was asleep.”

Hank pulls his lips in and nods. “I guess I never thought of it like that. And you might have a point, I suppose.” He laughs. “Though that doesn’t explain why he was so mean and withdrawn the rest of the day.”

An uncomfortable silence settles around us as thick as the fog.

“So,” Hank finally says. “Your turn now.”

“Hmm?” I look at him. “My turn for what?”

He smiles. “This is it, right?” He waggles the stick back and forth between the two of us. “What your mom wanted us to do: get to know each other. We haven’t really had the chance to talk up until now.”

“I, uh . . .” I blink at him, casting about for an excuse to cut this chat short. How did I let myself get suckered into
bonding
with Hank?

“Look, Dan, I don’t want us to be like me and my dad, just sharing the same space, never really talking to each other. I want us to have a real relationship, you know?” He looks at me, his brown eyes open and encouraging. “So, how about it, bud? What’s on your mind? Anything at all: A hope. A dream. A worry.”

Do not allow him to manipulate you,
I hear Charlie whisper in my mind.
He’s trying to use the “we’re just pals” play here, the “we’ve got so much in common” card. Trying to get you to lower your guard so he can smack you in the face again.

I can’t believe that I’m now having to listen to Charlie when Charlie isn’t even around.

It’s kind of frightening.

And hopefully not permanent.

Still, what “Charlie” is saying makes sense. Hank’s trying to smooth everything over — most likely to get me to underplay his horrific parental bumblings to Mom when we get home.

Fat chance,
bud.
I’m not biting.

That’s the spirit, Dan,
I hear Charlie say.
I think it’s time to break out a little
disillusionment.

“A worry?” I say. “OK, well, if you really want to know, I guess what I’m most worried about is . . .” I look up at him with big Bambi eyes. “Being let down by another dad.” I blink and force my chin to wobble, like I’m on the verge of tears. “You wouldn’t ever do that, right, Hank? You’ll always be
one hundred percent
truthful with Mom and me. And you’ll stick with us through thick and thin, good times and bad, like the vow says?”

“Of course —”

“I’m serious.” I talk to the baby sweater to keep my focus. “I don’t think I could stand the disappointment. Not again. And I don’t even want to
think
of what it would do to Mom if you guys got married and then you left us like my real dad. It would be the end of her.”

I don’t know if he’s buying any of this. I can’t look at him or I might lose my resolve.

“I love your mom very much, Dan,” Hank says. “And the last thing in the world I would want to do is disappoint either of you.”

Now,
Charlie says.
Do it now.

I look up and stare him dead in the eyes. “I need to hear the words, Hank. Promise me. If you’re going to be a part of our family, you’ll never lie to us and never let us down.”

He nods and gives me a small smile. “OK, Dan. I promise.”

And just like that, Hank seals his fate.

We are plodding along like a platoon of soldiers retreating from battle: Hank dragging his injured leg behind him; me with my itchy ass and swollen nose; and Charlie with PTSD, jumping at every swish and crunch in the bushes.

Penelope seems to be the only one who has come this far unscathed — although, technically, she
has
lost her mother. But she doesn’t seem too fazed by it.

Just as Hank suspected, the small brook has turned into a stream. That’s the good news. The bad news is that dark storm clouds have been slowly gathering overhead, and we only have a couple of days before Clint is due to meet us at the lake. The last thing we need is a nasty downpour to slow us down further.

Just as I’m thinking this, the wind starts to kick up in a big way, whipping leaves and dirt into our faces.

“I don’t like the looks of this!” Hank shouts, his first words in hours.

Ever since our little share-time chat this morning, Hank has been noticeably quiet and pensive. Which bodes well for me and my plan, I think.

Suddenly, there is a flash of light to our left. We spin around just in time to see the huge bolt of lightning fracturing the dark sky. A second later, the booming sound of God bowling a strike echoes through the entire forest.

“Don’t like the sounds of it, either!” Hank says.

The rain comes instantly, fast and ferocious, the drops swollen and cold.

My clothes are soaked almost immediately. They cling to my body, my shirtsleeves hanging heavy off my arms.

I shove my sketchbook up my shirt, trying to protect it as best I can. Charlie does the same with his camera.

“Come on!” Hank shouts over the sizzle of rain. “We need to find shelter.” He starts to stump off as another flash of lightning lights up the sky.
“Right now!”
A crack of thunder explodes, drowning him out.

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.