RV There Yet? (21 page)

The mosquitoes are working their way through my thin pajama bottoms now. I can almost hear the dive-bombers as those suckers head straight for my thighs, where there's enough flesh to get their entire colony through the winter.

They come at me in droves, and I shiver. Swatting furiously, I almost lose my balance and fall on the table. I figure I'll either break something or get a giant-sized splinter in my rump, neither of which will win me the Miss Congeniality Award.

More swatting. I'm working on a real hissy fit. There is no way I am going to stay out here all night and be their main course. Mud is dripping from my clothes. The splinter in my finger is killing me. Attempting to see it better in the moonlight, I lift it like a torch. “ET, go home” comes to mind. I wonder how soon after a mosquito bite malaria kicks in.

Stomping on the table, I give the window a hard knuckle rap, rap, rap. Still nothing. Okay, I want Millie and Lydia out of bed, and I want it now! My knuckles thwack harder against the pane. Not a sound. Biting, itching around my ankles, arms, face. A sliver of panic shoots through me. If I don't think of something quick, these mosquitoes will carry me off for breakfast.

What happened to Lydia's sleepless nights, for crying out loud? Tonight she's a bear in hibernation.

I'm wondering if there's any way to pry the window open without damaging anything. Goodness knows this RV doesn't need any help falling apart, but neither do I want to become bug bait. The blinds are down, but if I break a small hole in the window and put a hole in the screen, I can reach in, unlock the latch, slide the window to the left, and take out the screen. Then I can crawl inside. At this point, I am more than happy to purchase a new window and screen.

The trouble is, how do I make a small hole? It's not like I carry a knife on me, though now I'm thinking it might be a good idea to start doing so. My gaze scans the area. Maybe a jagged rock will do the trick.

The road in front of our site has rocks, so I climb down the table and scrunch around in the gravel in search of the appropriate weapon, all the while slapping at mosquitoes. When I find one “lethal” enough for the job, I head back up the table.

Before performing surgery on poor Waldo, I try one last time to wake someone up inside by knocking on the window. Not a single sound. Not even a peep from Cobbler—at least I can't hear her. With a gulp, I rap lightly against the screen in the area where I hope to stick my hand through. After several raps, I attempt to cut into the screen and then the glass with the jagged edge of the rock. A sick feeling curls in the pit of my stomach. I'm defacing someone's property here. I could get ten years—or at the very least community service at a diabetic camp where no chocolate is allowed. Hopefully Lydia will have mercy. It's freezing cold outside, and the mosquitoes are treating me like a hog on a spit, so I have to get inside.

More tapping, more cutting, until finally, a piece of the pane falls from the window. I keep tapping away at the glass until I've created an opening big enough for my hand to slip through. I make a hole big enough to get my head through the screen so I can see how to unlatch the window and pull the screen away, all the while praying Lydia doesn't hate me for this.

Carefully I reach through the hole and feel around for the lock mechanism at the bottom of the window. Bingo. I unlatch it, scraping my arm against the glass in the process, and I'm home free. A quick shove on the window, and it opens so I'm able to lift out the screen.

Now, if only I could figure out how to get inside without waking Lydia. There's just no great way to get around this. I'm stuck outside, and the only way I can get inside to my soft, warm bed is to cause Lydia a few, um, anxious moments. We can get the window and screen fixed when we arrive at Aspen Creek.

Another mosquito sucks the blood from my ankles. If I hesitate much longer with the window open, the entire mosquito population of Nebraska (which I'm convinced by now are all present, accounted for, and dressed in bibs) will follow me inside.

With the blind above me, I crawl through, allowing a shaft of moonlight to spray upon Lydia's sleeping face. I try like everything not to wake her, but let's be honest here. I'm crawling through a window, and I'm not exactly from Munchkinland. I'm five feet seven inches tall, and just for the record, it's nobody's business how much I weigh. Suffice it to say it isn't easy to squeeze a person of my size through a window. I'm not Gumby.

When I heave forward, the blind rattles, causing Lydia to stir in her bed. For a second, I pause. She settles back in, and I push forward once again. Just as I'm halfway through and towering over Lydia's legs, I glance once more to make sure I'm not waking her. It's too dark to see for sure, but I get the feeling here that she's matching me eyeball-to-eyeball. Because at this moment, she screams loudly enough to wake up the entire town—and don't ask me why, but I scream with her.

Her shriek catapults me into full throttle. In one jerk, I thrust forward and come crashing onto the bed, mud and all. She thrashes about, escapes from the blow, and throws the covers over me before I can catch a breath. I'm wondering if she'll take me to a nearby Laundromat for a thorough washing. With any luck, she'll put me on the permanent-press cycle and smooth out my wrinkles.

Millie's voice calls out from the kitchen, and I hear pots and pans clanging while Lydia cuts off my air supply with her death-grip hold on the covers. Soon copper bottoms are slamming against my backside with a vengeance.

I scream. “It's me! It's DeDe!” I fall onto the bed, facedown, in hopes of keeping their blows to a minimum. With a turn of my neck, I scream again. “Lydia! It's me.”

Millie and Lydia jump on me, and I'm thinking somebody told a fib about her weight.

More banging and scrambling about.

“DeDe, come help us! It's a burglar!”

I continue to thrash about, trying to find the end of the doggone blanket before I'm bludgeoned to death.

“Don't knock Cobbler over,” Lydia shrieks.

“Well”—bam—“I'm doing the best”—thump, wallop—“I can,” Millie says, gasping for breath in between floggings. I have the sick feeling that Millie is enjoying this far more than she should.

More thwacks against my backside and for once I'm thankful for the extra meat on my bones—what's left after the mosquito fest, anyway. Finally, I throw off the corner of the comforter and emerge a muddy, cold, beat-up mess. Lydia has a pot stretched over her head and is about to knock me out cold when Millie screams, “It's DeDe!”

Lydia drops the pan. Only then do I dare breathe.

My best friends tried to beat me to death with shiny copper-bottomed pans. Six months tops before I appear on the Dr. Phil show. My body will not move. Can't even lift my pinkie finger. The worst part of all is, I itch like the dickens. Wait. Can you itch if you're dead? I don't think so. Doggone it. That means I'm still stuck in this stupid motor home.

“DeDe,” Lydia says with obvious timidity, “are you feeling okay?”

“Oh sure, I'm fine, aside from the fact I was almost beat to death by my best friends.” I attempt to get up from the covers and grimace.

“I'm so sorry, DeDe. I've brought you some coffee,” she says in a futile attempt at an apology.

“Don't give it another thought, but the pots and pans are going.”

“You shouldn't feel so bad,” Millie grouses. “Who wouldn't thump someone upside the head if they were breaking into your motor home?”

“Thanks a lot, Millie.” If I had the energy, I'd clobber her one. Besides, with all my scratching, I have no free hands.

“Well, I'm sorry we beat on you, DeDe, but you can't blame us, really. For goodness' sake, you looked like you'd been in a hog pen, and it was dark in the room, after all. Why don't you tell us what happened?” Millie asks.

They help me sit halfway up in my bed so I can take a few sips of coffee. “My lips are the only thing that doesn't hurt,” I say. There are welts on my body the size of Texas—not from the beating but from the mosquito bites.

Lydia winces.

“It's not your fault, Lydia.” I explain what happened. Then I tell Millie to pull back the blind so they can see the damage I did to the window. “I'm sorry, Lydia. I'll repair it as soon as we get to the camp,” I say.

“I forgot about the window,” Millie says. “We'd better get some duct tape on that to hold it until we get there.”

“That's true. We sure don't want a real burglar getting in here,” Lydia says, making chills crawl up my bumpy arms.

Though I try, it's a struggle to find a comfortable position on the bed. My face itches and I scratch it, realizing the mosquitoes must have nibbled there too.

“What are all those welts from, Dee? We didn't hit you in the face, did we?” Millie asks.

I shake my head. “Let me just say I now know how a turkey feels.”

“What?” Lydia looks confused.

“I was the main course for a mosquito feast.”

Lydia tries to cover her chuckles behind her hand. Millie doesn't bother. She laughs out loud.

See if I give them any more truffles. “You wouldn't think it was so funny if it happened to you,” I say, scratching my cheek.

Lydia sits at the foot of my bed while Millie applies duct tape to the holes in the screen and window.

“We're sorry, DeDe. It just seems ironic that this would happen to you. I mean, you hating bugs, camping, and all,” Lydia says sweetly.

“Yeah, real ironic. As in a joke with poor taste.”

Millie glances at me, and I glare back. “Well, don't look at me. I didn't call out the mosquitoes or lock you out of the RV,” she says.

“Yeah, whatever.” I stretch. “What time are we leaving?”

“We've already left.” Lydia laughs. “We've been on the road for three hours. We just pulled off at a rest stop to check on you.”

It's hard to believe I slept through everything. “I'm sorry, you guys. I didn't mean to make a mess of things and sleep in to boot.”

“No problem. Just use the door the next time,” Millie says, sticking on the last strip of tape.

“Remember, I tried that. We'd better get it looked at so it doesn't stick on us in the future.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. We'll be okay until we get to the camp,” Lydia says, nibbling at her pinkie finger.

“We'll be fine,” Millie says, but something in her voice tells me she's not so sure. Roll of tape in hand, she starts to leave the room. “We'd better get back on the road.”

“Where will we—”

“We'll still be in Nebraska tonight,” she says. “Some small lake area. Supposed to be really nice.”

Lydia follows Millie and closes the door behind them so I can get showered and dressed.

Every bone in my body hurts when I attempt to get up. You would think Pilates would make me a little more flexible, but no. Come to think of it, I was the main course for bloodsucking parasites, to say nothing of the fact I was pulverized with pots and pans by two old women bent on hurting someone. That's enough to make anyone sore.

Maybe this was the reason for that whole storm-brewing feeling I had. I can only hope it's not the calm before the storm.

Okay, that thought
so
does not make me feel better.

16

“All right, girls, time for our Rocky Mountain National Park
trivia,” Millie says, settling into the passenger's seat and opening her book.

Things could be worse. She could be playing her trumpet.

She stops turning pages, and her finger runs along a line of words. “Okay, when do bull elk and buck deer shed their antlers, and what happens almost immediately afterward?” Millie turns to me with a smile.

“Um, late winter?” I say.

“Early spring?” Lydia chimes in.

“You're both right,” Millie says with a snap of her head. “In late winter and early spring.” She reads a moment, then looks back up. “What happens almost immediately afterward?”

“They buy a hat?” I ask dryly.

Millie glares at me a moment, then turns away. “Lydia?”

“Don't they start growing their next year's rack?”

“Right again,” Millie says, rewarding Lydia with a smile. I half-expect her to pass out gold stars. “Anyone know what new-growth antlers are covered with?”

“A sort of velvet type texture?” Lydia says.

“Right!” Millie's so excited, she's about to jump off her seat.

“Brownnose,” I grouse.

“What? I'm sorry, DeDe,” Lydia says.

“You should read more, DeDe. You might learn something,” Millie says, closing her book with a snap.

“I'd rather make chocolate.”

“Which is why you don't know the answers to these questions,” Millie quips. “Knowledge equals power.”

“Then I guess I'm weak. But I make good chocolate.”