An Incidental Reckoning (4 page)

Jon put his fingers to his temples and rubbed to thwart a nascent headache. Too much thinking. He had tried hard to steer clear of anything that could be considered a mid-life crisis, didn’t see the point of re-evaluating it all. You made choices, and you lived with those choices. You did the best you could. Then one day your heart quit or some rogue cells began to multiply and chewed up your insides and it was over, quick or not so quick. The handful of people who got to rise above the masses and live the good life, the musicians and sports stars and celebrities, all bought it in the end, too. And if one could simply be content with small pleasures, would the mind know they weren’t on scale with the delights available those who could afford them? Erin, for any other faults, was still fun in bed. On the occasions they had sex. Not a model’s face or body, but once the lights went out, did it matter? Only if you made it matter.

You did the best you could. It had worked for him this far, it would work until the end. He just didn’t need to think about it anymore. And he wondered now if there would be a camping trip next year. Will seemed to be following a path he didn’t wish to tread.

Throwing rocks at Brody’s car.

He couldn’t even imagine…well, no he could. But imagining is as far as it would have gone. Jon had spent too long avoiding the bullied and humiliated kid he had once been to fan the embers of the past into an inferno that could consume it all.

He stood up and stretched, noticed two points of light, the firelight reflecting off of the retinas of an opportunistic raccoon lurking in the shadows, and did a quick check of the picnic table near the fire ring to make sure no food had been left to encourage the thief.

“I think I’m going to turn in, Will. Been a long day. Will?”

“What? Oh, okay Jon. Just going to sit here for a while longer.”

“Good night, then.”

Will didn’t answer, had already gone back to the place that Jon had intruded on. He studied his friend for a bit longer, then shook his head and prepared to sleep. He would help Will if he was having trouble, even go with him if he needed to see a shrink or something. But he wasn’t going to pick up any rocks of his own, or pick a fight with a stranger just to see what happened. He had a fleeting vision of the Amish boy he saw before Will arrived. Maybe he should fight one of them. He didn’t think they were even allowed to fight back, so maybe that would satisfy Will’s need to conquer. But then, if he misjudged, and the Amish guy put him down with a right hook, that would be something Will could never live with. Beaten up by the Amish; a singular experience, but not of the sort Will needed.

He chuckled to himself, the imagery too rich not to enjoy, and found his flashlight to illuminate a path to the tent. No one else had come in today, so they had the area to themselves; nice during the daylight, but sort of spooky once the sun was gone.

Will rose in better spirits in the morning, and Jon hoped they could put yesterday’s conversation behind them and just enjoy the weekend. They shared some Pop-Tarts and fruit bars Jon had brought, and washed them down with water from one of the gallon jugs also pulled from his trunk. Neither mentioned a shower. Four days of increasing filthiness. On returning home, Erin wouldn’t even give him a peck on the cheek until he had bathed. He found it amusing how any other time eating with grimy hands would turn his stomach, but on a camping trip, after handling worms and fish and rinsing them off in a stream containing who knew what, he did so without a second thought. As though bacteria had taken a vacation, too. So far he had never become sick, and his hands and face
did
get a washing now and then after using the camp bathroom about fifty yards from their site.

They climbed into Will’s car again, planning to explore the area to find some of the nature preserves marked in the atlas and do some more fishing, with a goal of catching enough for a trout dinner. Jon thought about the deep emotion with the fish the previous day, and found no qualm with catching and killing them now. Good. He didn’t care to analyze it any further, attributed his weakness to the unexpected turn of conversation.

While looking for Rosecrans Bog, they found themselves in a network of dirt roads reminiscent of the one lane tracks found in State Game Lands, again grateful for the DeLorme’s that clearly marked them; otherwise, they could have spent the rest of their time here trying to find their way out. They reached the bog, which amounted to a single, small sign at the edge of the forest and a thin trail that disappeared into the trees. After sitting in the car and staring at it, without any indication of what the trail might lead to, and how long it would take to hike, they decided to pass.

At Wolf Nature Reserve, the trailhead began at a parking lot set between a wide creek designated for fly fishing-only and a bike path. A hiking trail ascended a steep slope into the trees across the highway, but the atlas didn’t point out any interesting features such as a waterfall or scenic view as reward for their labor. It promised only a long loop through a remote forest area that would bring them back down to this lot. Jon didn’t kid himself about his state of fitness, and the initial hill that rose above the lot made his legs rubbery and his chest hurt just by looking at it.

“Why don’t we find another trout stream?” he said.

“I second that.”

They grinned at each other, pleased with their mutual opinion regarding the trail. Jon felt a reestablishment of the easy rhythm of their past meetings, last night an aberration over and done. Will still seemed a little bit off his usual self, but not in an alarming manner. And he did find some lasting vicarious satisfaction about the broken windows and dented hood of Brody’s car. Why not? It was just a heap of metal easily repaired. What Brody had broken in them wasn’t so easy to scrounge parts to fix.

They found another stream in mid-afternoon. Despite it being rather narrow, and after enduring the relentless attacks of mosquitoes that forced a quarter-mile hike back to the vehicle for some bug spray, they caught four decent sized brook trout in several deep holes. Both Jon and Will also hooked some fingerlings, little trout a few inches long that attacked their bait as soon as it hit the water.

Disappointed at the limited sightseeing opportunities but eager for some fresh trout cooked in butter and seasoning salt, they arrived back at the campsite at about four p.m. It was Saturday now, with a full day ahead and then most of Monday before they broke camp and headed back to their respective lives. They would maintain virtually no communication between then and the next trip (Jon had now decided there would be a next trip if Will agreed). They had tried communicating through e-mails, but Jon found within himself a reluctance to carry on a running conversation. Will’s long pauses between answering his suggested the same.

Jon didn’t know if they would even be friends without their shared experiences, would have even said hello while passing in the halls. Will had a whole different outlook on life. He sought success, to win, and had achieved moderate results and kept on striving for the brass ring. He sold something for a living. Jon didn’t even know what, sure Will had told him once but he didn’t remember. Here he still mostly saw him as a gawky ninth-grader with a long reach but not much power behind the punches.

Will cleaned the fish while Jon built up the fire, and then he placed the fillets in tin foil and cooked them over a propane camp stove. When finished, they chewed in silence, savoring the solitude and the good meal.

Jon noticed that every time a car passed, Will would stare intently until it disappeared. Once, when someone entered the campground and rode around the loop, Will visibly tensed until the two elderly men inside a battered pick-up truck smiled and waved, flashing maybe one whole set of teeth between them, embarked on what must have amounted to a thrill ride as far as Jon could figure.

Around seven, the rough sound of motorcycles drifted ahead of the machines, and two bikers appeared on the road in staccato flashes glimpsed through the trees. Jon waited impatiently for them to pass and the noise to diminish, but then realized the bikes had slowed and would enter the campground.

The rumble of the mufflers, less intense at low throttle, still reverberated throughout their space as the bikers approached on the loop. Jon tried not to stare, but Will leaned forward in his camp chair, squinting at the two riders. One was small and lean, the bike making him appear even more diminutive than he might have when dismounted. The other had a large beer belly protruding almost to the gas tank. Both had beards, the large man’s full and falling to his chest, his smaller companion’s a goatee about three inches long and worn with a mustache. They wore do-rags and leather chaps covering blue jeans, and leather jackets.

Despite Will’s rude and possibly provocative inspection as they passed, the bikers ignored them, kept riding to the bend in the loop and stopped at a site there, shutting off the machines, the silence now a palpable sound itself with the absence of the bikes’ rumbling.

Jon looked at Will and he appeared pale. He found the presence of such men somewhat upsetting himself, but they had chosen a site a fair distance away, obviously relishing their own privacy, and it stood to reason that they just needed a place to crash for the night. Probably be gone in the morning, and he and Will could finish their time in peace.

“You okay, Will? Look like you saw ghosts riding on the backs of their bikes.”

“I’m fine. Just wish they had gone somewhere else.”

Jon didn’t understand his intense scrutiny of the men. If he felt uncomfortable, why would he stare in a way that could make trouble where there wasn’t any? He hoped Will wasn’t sizing them up for his experiment in courage. If he picked a fight, Will had no intention of joining in.

“Well, at least they’re down there. I bet they leave in the morning.”

“I hope so.”

After dark, they could see a fire in the bikers’ camp and make out the silhouettes of their contrasting builds while seated on large pieces of firewood upended as makeshift chairs. Except for the occasional burst of laughter, they remained quiet and kept to themselves. They didn’t appear to even have a tent, and Jon wondered if they would just sleep on the ground or had some tarps or thin bedrolls tucked away somewhere. Another good sign that they didn’t intend to stay. He even found a bit of comfort in their presence. They might work as a deterrent to anyone else that might have plans to stop and rob them. Would be an easy place for a mugging, with quick access to the highway. Maybe those old men had been casing their campsite earlier. Or perhaps a rogue band of Amish planned to fall on them in the dark. This brought another involuntary chuckle. Jon didn’t intend any disrespect, but putting the Amish in these ridiculous situations couldn’t help but be funny. Jon shared it with Will, and then they both laughed, amused at the picture but also burning off some of the tension built with the appearance of the bikers.

“It would be…be like…those raccoons that hide in the woods. A whole bunch of eyes, and then you’d see the hats and beards and suspenders,” Will managed between gasps.

“And their beards in ponytails…” Jon said.

They didn’t notice the smaller of the two bikers until he had come close. They jumped as he spoke.

“Hey, do you guys mind keeping it down? My friend and I are ready to get some sleep and it’s kind of hard with all the racket over here.”

They stared at him for a few moments, trying to shift gears from their levity to his sudden appearance.

“Wh…what?” Will stammered.

“You’re making too much noise. Said on the camp rules that quiet time was nine pm. It’s about ten after, so we would appreciate some quiet, that’s all.”

The man smiled a smile that seemed genuine and innocuous but hard to read well in the firelight.

“I don’t think we were being that loud. I mean, you’re way over there. And we heard you laughing, too.”

“Well, you were pretty loud. And that was before nine that me and Chris were laughing. We respect the rules, and are just asking that you do the same, okay? Appreciate it.” The man gave a little half-wave and started to leave, and then turned back to face them, his smile still in place.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you on walking over. That thing about a beard in a ponytail…you weren't making fun of us, were you?”

“No. We weren’t.” Will said. “Something else entirely. Good night.”

“Okay, my mistake. Just that it wouldn’t be all that kind if you were making fun of us. That’s all I’m saying.’

“We weren’t.” Jon tried to keep the edge out of his voice. The guy seemed so damn polite. But he couldn’t imagine that their laughter had bothered them so much that they felt compelled to send over a delegation.