How Sweet It Is (26 page)

“Aw, Zack… I mean Mr. Anderson.” He smiled.

“Do you want to share your camping chair this weekend?”

“You mean let other kids sit in it? Like Dougy?”

“Yes.”

Bubba’s smile faded and the chair was left behind in the church. Shortly after that, we were ready to leave.

I’ve told myself that this trip will be about the kids, their having fun. I don’t want to let whatever it is that Zack and Rhonda have or don’t have going on take away from the children.
Concentrate, concentrate,
my positive self repeats as I drive, following Zack’s truck that leads our caravan to the Smoky Mountains.

We are to camp at Smokemont, which has an elevation of 2,198 feet and is near the Cherokee reservation. Miriam reserved two side-by-side campsites where we’ll pitch our four tents.

I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt the color of berries. All summer I’ve covered my arms, and now on this camping trip, I’ve decided it is time to expose my scars and just deal with whatever comments come my way. The afternoon air still holds warmth, so I don’t feel chilly.

I drive cautiously, but soon realize that I’m more relaxed about being in a vehicle on these mountain roads than I’ve ever been. Perhaps having the excited girls in the back seat helps. Lisa has a packet of Skittles she shares with Charlotte. Rhonda says little but does find us a radio station with jazz music.

“Do you like jazz?” I ask her as we creep farther up the mountain through the park.

“I love it.” She leans back in the passenger seat. Dreamily, she adds, “So does Zack.”

I wonder if anyone has packed Tums. We curve around a scenic overlook; a few cars are parked, and tourists are admiring the hues of autumn colors under a shiny blue sky. The day is too nice to let jealousy get the best of you, I tell myself.

When we reach the campsite, the kids from Zack and Robert’s vehicles are darting across the fallen leaves and laughing loudly. Where do they get all their energy?

“I’m going to jump in the Bradley River,” yells Dougy.

I’d heard that the river runs through the camping area. Hopefully, it will be too cool for anyone to be tempted by its waters. I enjoy swimming but have never had to rescue anyone. I look at Zack, who is starting to set up a tent. He’s the one in good shape. If Dougy makes a dive into the river, I’ll let Zack help him out.

The boys want to assist Zack with the tents. He lets them help until Dougy uses a rope and pair of pliers to lasso Bubba. Then all of us feel it works better if we have two people setting up each tent, and the selected two are Zack and Robert. Rainy and Charlotte watch closely, and when the boys start to toss a Frisbee and become too occupied to protest, the girls help the men hammer the pins through the rings to keep the tents secure. Zack says he is impressed by Rainy’s skill with a hammer.

I call the boys over to help the rest of us unload our food supplies. The food is piled in old cardboard boxes I used to move to Bryson City. Bubba ceremoniously flexes arm muscles he does not have, grins when I tell him I think he has actually put on some weight, and helps me carry the boxes needed for tonight to the picnic tables by the two campsites.

One box contains jars of condiments, cans of baked beans, potato chips, and fruit juice boxes. Hamburger and hot dog buns, chocolate bars, graham crackers, and marshmallows fill another. The third holds paper plates, cups, napkins, and plastic utensils. My Coleman cooler is stocked with ground beef, hot dogs, cheese, sausages, and two cartons of eggs. Some of this is breakfast food. Darren takes two pans of brownies out of the trunk of my Jeep as Joy places a bag of charcoal by the fire pit. Rhonda opens another cooler, one I borrowed from Miriam. From it, she takes out a bottle of Aquafina and unscrews the cap. She pauses to take a few sips and then takes a jug of drinking water from the back of Zack’s truck. She sets it on one of the picnic tables.

“Maybe,” she says, her eyes glancing across both of the tables, “we should let one of these tables be for storing food and the other the one we eat at.”

“Storing food on a table!” yells Bubba, his little body lifting a box. “If you keep food outside, the bears will be sure to find us.”

“Bears!” Joy looks like she just saw one. “I hate bears.”

“You’re right, Bubba.” Zack threads the end of a rope through a grommet. “After we eat, we’ll have to put all the leftovers back inside the cars.”

Rhonda frowns. “I wasn’t suggesting we leave food out all night,” she snaps.

Zack keeps his attention on the rope.

Robert glances over at me.

Then Joy says, “Will y’all please pray that no bears attack us tonight?”

“Or snakes,” says Lisa.

“I’ll pray,” Rainy tells her. “I’m good at praying.”

————

Joy and Bubba help Robert with the burgers and hot dogs. Rainy and Charlotte stir the baked beans cooking on a grate by the fire as I supervise. Rhonda slices tomatoes and onions, because after Charlotte’s episode with the kitchen knife, everyone’s afraid of cutting themselves. They won’t admit it to any of us, but we know. Rhonda opens two store-bought containers of coleslaw and places them on the table. Zack sets the table with the napkins, plates, and forks. Rhonda edges close to whisper a few things to Zack. I try to control my emotions. If I named them, they would be jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. You have to give that up, I tell myself as I watch Bobby, Lisa, and Darren place juice boxes at each place setting. You are not in the business of jealousy. You must protect your heart from everything. Haven’t you learned that yet?

At last, Robert announces that the grilled food is done, and with a holler, Bobby rushes to his place at the table, lifting his fork for emphasis. “Bring it on!” he shouts. “I’m starving.”

After Robert offers the blessing, we eat in silence, except for the children’s noisy manners. I am tempted to smack my lips like Bubba, but I know that as an adult, I have to set a good example. Zack sits beside me, although there is a vacancy by Rhonda. Charlotte fills it after she returns from the restroom.

“This is good food,” Bubba says, as bits of bread fly from his lips. “But do you know what would make it better?”

I think we are all expecting to hear some reference to McDonald’s. I know I am.

“What, Bubba?” asks Zack.

“Crispy potatoes like we made in class. Ms. Livingston, those were sweet!”

I smile; a tiny quiver of happiness runs into my veins.

“I like cooking,” says Rainy. “Of course, I am good at it.” She smiles at Dougy, who groans and crams half a hotdog into his mouth.

————

After dinner and a few guesses at charades, we sit around a glowing bed of red coals and roast marshmallows for s’mores. Squares of Hershey’s chocolate and graham crackers line a flat, wide stone. The children build their own creations.

Bubba licks the last of his gooey chocolate-marshmallow-graham-cracker treat and cries, “Where’s Charlotte?”

The adults do a head count, and not seeing the girl, Zack starts to get up.

I quickly stand. “I’ll go look,” I say with a firmness I’m not used to. I suppose my trying-to-motivate self is springing forward in this campsite. I hear Dr. Seuss’s words in my memory:
Today is your day!

“Hope a grizzly didn’t get her,” whispers Bobby.

“Hope a hawk didn’t carry her into the river,” Dougy teases.

“She’s probably in her tent,” Lisa says.

Joy has jumped up to scout out the tents. She unzips the door to one, pokes her head and flashlight inside, and calls, “Not in here.”

“Remember not to go in the boys’ tents,” yells Bobby. “Remember them rules.”

Earlier, before dinner, Zack laid down the ground rules: “Boys stay in their tents, and no going in the girls’.”

Lisa twirled a strand of hair. Batting her long eyelashes and turning her head to look toward Dougy, she asked, “Is it okay for girls to go in boys’ tents?”

Zack stood facing the group. “What do you think?”

She mumbled, “I don’t know.”

Zack set her straight. “There will be no going in the boys’ tents if you are a girl. Is that understood?”

“What if my asthma starts acting all crazy and I need help?” Bobby asked.

“Then we’ll help you. Did you bring your inhaler?”

Bobby nodded at Zack. “I’m hungry,” he announced, his voice echoing across the wooded site. “Let’s get this party started!”

After getting all the rules laid out, we ate dinner.

Obviously, Charlotte is not in any of the tents now.

I start out on my search. Immediately, I feel the coolness of the air. Earlier, I took my jacket off because by the fire, it was warm. I wish I’d thought to put it on before heading out to who knows where.

I’m not sure where to look for Charlotte. Last I noticed her, she was seated by Bubba, and then she went to the restroom. With my flashlight lighting the way, I walk along a path lined with crisp autumn leaves. Suddenly, the darkness scares me; the boldness I mustered just a while ago seems lost. How will I find her in this place void of bright lights? I enter the damp, sour-smelling washroom, call her name, open each stall door, watch a spider scurry across a roll of toilet paper, call her name again, and panic.

Dear God, I hope a bear hasn’t chewed her in two. How will I ever tell Cindy? I envision her standing with a pen and pad at the Fryemont, all ready for an evening of waiting on tables, and instead learning that her sister has disappeared.

I leave the restroom and stand under a florescent light, wondering which way to go. The tall pines loom thick around me, their shadows dancing against the crooked paths strewn with pine needles and cones. I consider calling out her name; perhaps then Charlotte will come out from wherever she’s hiding. Or it could have the opposite effect. Realizing I’ve come to find her, she could hear my voice and run farther away. I know one thing: I am not about to fail at this. Determined to find her, I breathe, “God, please help me.”

A breeze picks up, rattling oak leaves across the path. I squint and wonder if my eyes are getting worse. Regena Lorraine once said that she could get me a discount on her leopard-spotted glasses. I wonder how long the kids would laugh if I appeared one day in those. But what I wouldn’t give to be able to have some help in finding Charlotte now, and if it meant wearing goofy glasses, I’d gladly put them on. Sighing, I look around and hope the rumors of bears really are rumors. Coldness covers me. I want to go back to the warmth of the campfire and to Zack’s smile. But I am so worried for Charlotte.

It is then that I hear a rustling sound coming from the left side of the restrooms. I listen; if I were a dog, my ears would be pointed and alert. Guided by the light from my flashlight, I carefully make my way toward the noise.

Seated at a picnic table behind the restrooms is Charlotte. Of course she wouldn’t go far. Why did I worry? She’s more timid than I am.

Approaching her, I whisper, “Charlotte.”

Her head is on top of the wooden table, her arms flung over her hair.

I sit beside her on the damp bench, turn off my flashlight. “What’s wrong?”

She moves a little but says nothing.

Okay, I think. We don’t have to talk. At least I have found her and she isn’t in the clutches of a bear or hawk. Cindy will be able to carry on with being a waitress tonight.

“They laughed at me.” Charlotte’s voice is muffled, yet it doesn’t sound like she’s been crying. “When I did the charade, they thought I was stupid.”

“They laugh at everyone.” They laughed at me as I tried to act out Little Bo Peep. Bobby was literally rolling on the ground, pine needles sticking to his jeans and jacket. I played the game. I could have refused like Joy did. She said she was too tired and then threw in her feelings about the game. When she used the word
hate
, Zack asked her to come up with a different word.

“I don’t know any other word,” she pouted.

“Try
dislike
or
don’t care for
.”

She frowned and said, “The game stinks.”

He wouldn’t let her get away with that, even though Bubba and Dougy were insisting we get the game started.

She gave in. “I don’t care for charades.”

Zack told her that was an improvement, and then we began the game.

“You played, at least,” I tell Charlotte now. “That’s what counts.”
It isn’t whether you win or lose, but if you play.
The words come to me with a bold profundity, and I wonder if they’re stitched on Regena Lorraine’s tote bag.

Shivering, I rub my hands over my arms and shake my legs to get the blood circulating. I’m tempted to get up and head back to my jacket and make Charlotte come with me.
Take it easy
. The words to one of Jonas’s favorite songs ring in my mind.

I let my body relax just when Charlotte pleads, “You will never leave me, will you, Miss Livingston?”

What does she mean? Leave her alone at this picnic table? Leave The Center? Leave town?

“You’re nice.” She reaches out and strokes my arm, her fingers evenly gliding over my scars. “I think you’re an angel.”

“Well, most people don’t feel that way,” I say.
Like Darren.

“You never know about people. People are good at pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

She stops touching my arm and flips her legs around so that she has her back to the table. “Showing how they really feel. You know, what’s inside. The part only God sees.”

I feel a warmth slither over me like a big quilt tucking me in at every side. The air is not so cold anymore.

“Have you noticed the stars?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say.

We lift our heads to see the wide sky of flickering lights. The moon has risen—round but not yet full, and tinted with a yellow glossy glow—just over the treetops. “

I like to think that all those stars are my prayers,” whispers Charlotte. “God thinks they are so pretty he chooses to string them in the sky.”

I consider her words. “That’s beautiful, Charlotte.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, don’t tell Rainy or anyone that I said that.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll laugh at me some more.”