Scavengers (13 page)

"A pickle?” she asked, and I told her to keep going. “A jim-dandy pickle that causes bloodshed?

No—at least I hope not. Bloodshed dandy pickle."

I was nodding my head vigorously, knowing she was but a second away.

"Bloodshed dilly pickle! Dill pickle!” she cried. “What the heck is a bloodshed dill pickle."

Argh! So close. “Um ... get the pickle out of the shed,” I idiotically suggested but didn't know what else to say without actually saying it.

"Huh?"

"Try ‘bloody dill pickle,'” I suggested.

"No!"

Argh! “Where would a pickle have to be in order for it to get—no, that won't work. You'll gag or something. Um ... There's a kind of drink that's blood red and can have a big dill pickle in it.

Think,” I suggested, knowing that I had all but said it outright. Then I stood up and waited for the grandaha.

But it didn't come. Instead, she hung her head and said, “This whole thing is going to come down to a pickle from a Bloody Mary? An f-ing pickle?"

"Yes, an f-ing pickle. A fickle. A fugly fickle. And you expected something monumental ...

instead of just mental?"

"I did! I really did! Fugly fickle is f-ing right."

"Yep, and remember: Getting that first Bloody Mary will cost you brunch for nine. Think hard about whether winning is really the prize.” As I got to my feet, I quickly added, “Revenge may be sweeter. You know those ‘just desserts.’ Now, I've got to get back and get a caffeine fix in my woman."

Just as I had returned and fetched the thermos of plain hot water, I saw a man heading our way.

Across his shoulders was a long metal bar, and from each end hung a large bucket of crushed ice.

He carried the weight as if it were the thermos I clutched.

"Good morning, girls,” he said quite kindly. “Listen, I'm sorry if I scared you all last night with my little prank. I don't know what go into me. Maybe I'm just excited about the season about to open and the campers returning. Whatever, though, I'm sorry."

"We weren't afraid. Were we, Laura?” I said, unable to resist one more round of nose rubbing. “It was good for a laugh. Don't worry about it."

"Great” he replied, seemingly relieved by our verdict. Then he leaned toward me and in a quieter voice said, “If you could tell that to Kris and my wife, I'd be much grateful.” Then his voice boomed again, as he added, “Now, I've got to get a move on. People for brunch!"

He strode off—the drill sergeant, who had obviously been drilled to the wall by two sisters.

My mind recalled every inane slasher movie that I had ever seen, and when I looked around at my comrades, I noticed that each of us resembled the one poor survivor: babbling on the roadside, disheveled, spent, and on her way into years and years of therapy. In the same slasher-movie way, it wasn't over, either, although you were being lulled into that belief. There was always something—eyes in the woods, the distant sound of a chainsaw, or the smell of bacon cooking in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere—something just told you that it wasn't quite over, not just yet.

For us, the time swiftly wended its way to nine. We did our best to make ourselves presentable and to load everything back into the van. With a mere ten minutes to go, we all headed to the front of the building. We walked like the civilized, upstanding citizens that Kris and Ginny said we couldn't be.

Well, at least we were that way until we rounded the front of the building. Then all hell broke loose. Suddenly, it had nothing even to do with couples. It was each woman for herself, making a made dash for the front door as the clock ticked. Without a doubt, we were very alert to the finish line, and very alert to the pain elbows could inflict on a competitor.

This was it! The moment for which we had worked so hard.

The anticipation and desperation heightened even more when we saw the “Closed for the Season”

sign being removed from the door window. Like track stars as the gun is raised, we dug in our feet, waiting for the blessed moment to shove off. But unlike those same athletes, our launch looked far from graceful and disciplined. As one, we nearly fell into a heap as the door pulled inward.

The pile of us had landed in a small receiving area, and a woman, obviously Kris’ sister, said, “If you'll give me a moment, I will find you a table."

We stood at attention, still writhing to get to the head of the nonexistent line.

Seconds later, the woman returned and politely instructed, “If you'll follow me..."

Now maybe we could be uncivilized with each other, but to bowl over an innocent woman in our haste—well, just let it be stated that we had never gone that far. We contained ourselves and followed her out of the tiny room. As we rounded the corner, we saw a long set table with the grand poo-bahs seated there, staring at us as they sipped steaming hot coffee. We saw Kris’ sister, who had led us in, suddenly move away from us. And then we saw Vernon, standing behind the bar with a broad grin on his face.

The bar!Oh, the mayhem that ensued!

I saw Holly throw herself to the floor and grab Claudia's leg with one arm while latching onto Susan's leg with the other. “I have them! Run, Laura! Run!” she cried.

But Laura had something else in mind. Before I could even think to defend myself, she scooped me up and hauled me back to the entryway. She shoved me into the coat closet, saying, “Some like us are forced to live in the closet. Poor things!” She slammed the door.

I promptly opened the door and ran after her as she made a beeline for the bar, where, I gleefully noted, stood Alison in full smile waiting for Vernon to make her a frickin’ Bloody Mary.Fugly fickle, please.

Rather than tackle Laura to the ground, I attempted to pull on Holly as she willfully held onto the two flailing legs. I finally freed them both and watched as Holly, too, made a beeline for the bar.

There, they barked their orders at Vernon, as if their life depended upon it.

But we had something else in mind. The four of us—Susan, Maggie, Claudia, and me—formed a line behind them. Calmly we watched as they excitedly took their Bloody Marys from Vernon.

With the arrogance of a huge hawk with a minute mouse in its claw, they turned, and one of them said, “Looks like we just won, ladies."

"Oh, you did, did you?” said the enlightened Maggie.

"Oh?” said the newly enlightened one with the muddy pants.

"You think so, huh?” said the lighter one.

"We'll have four more Bloody Marys, Vernon,” I said. “And you might as well make it pitchers since these twowinners here will be picking up the tab."

B-words, F-bombs—you know the rest of the drill. The two of them were allowed absolutely no joy in their hard fought, hard won victory.

At least one vendetta had been settled, and at this juncture, “sanguinary” indeed meant

“bloodshed."

We argued back and forth as Vernon prepared a pitcher of Bloody Marys, offering it up with four glasses, a big fugly fickle sticking out of each. As I reached for the pitcher from the bar, Vernon asked, “She didn't tell you, did she?"

"Who?” I asked. “Who tell us what?"

"Kris! Did she tell you that there's no charge for brunch? This is the tactical field exercise for the new summer staff."

"A frickin’ dress rehearsal?” I screamed, relying on an analogy I knew better, but I quickly scoured my mind for the jargon I had picked up from my dad, a military man as well.

"Yeah, from the way you girls were talking,” Vernon continued, “it sure sounded like she didn't tell you. There's no charge for helping us!"

With that, Holly began wildly jumping up and down, and Laura did that peacock thing. They high-fived each other, while the rest of us simply stared at each other, our mouths agape like very duped and deflating Lover Dolls.

"Sir, Vernon, sir,” I yelled, holding a salute, as I slowly dusted off the memories my father had given me.

"What is it, recruit?” he snapped back, smiling as he transformed into something bigger, as if he were slipping into an old uniform that fit him so well.

"Permission to test your cleaning staff, sir!"

"Permission granted, recruit!” he said loudly, saluted, and then whispered, “And how!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

I looked to my comrades, who I thought were catching onto the only recourse that remained.

"Ready!” I said, grasping the slippery “jim-dandy pickle that causes bloodshed” between my fingers and watching the three others do the same. “Aim! Fire!” I shouted.

I figured it was at about the “fi” in “fire” when Holly and Laura hit the deck like the peahens they had proven to be.

But, they were not our targets. We turned slowly, like military turrets, and let the sanguinary humdinger brines lob themselves toward the grand dames, the grand poo-bahs, these women who had so skillfully screwed with us.

They did not hit them. We did not intend for them to hit them. It was the ducking we wanted as the dripping projectiles ripped their way towards them. It was that apropos splash of tomato juice that each of them got in their laughing face as the bloody battle came to an end.

We turned, and this time, our occasion to high-five had arrived.

Funny, if we didn't madly jump up and down and strut like peacocks.

It was victory.

Just without the points.