at St. John's Memorial Hospital, was still struggling to keep his sanity.
The van hit a bump. Josh said, "Hey, I dropped part of my cupcake!"
"Sorry," said Bill. His voice was soft and anxious.
"No problem," said Josh, leaning over. "There’s more where that came from.” And he held up a second pack he’d bought.
"Katie said she was going to make us a snack," said Melinda. "It'll be ready when we get there. Baked apples with raisins. Banana boats with nuts and chocolate and marshmallows. Maybe deep-dish peach cobbler, cooked in the coals. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”
"Katie's a good cook," said Bill. "She never could teach me how, but she tried, bless her. She was teaching Gillian, though, and Gillian was getting pretty good."
Josh said nothing.
Melinda said, "That's nice, Bill. That's really sweet."
Not having a child of her own, Melinda couldn't fathom the anguish at the death of a child. Gillian Flory, seven years old, had been killed by a drunken, hit-and-run driver who had slammed into her on the sidewalk in front of the Florys' house six months earlier. No one had been caught or convicted. Katie still grieved, but her stoicism helped keep her rational. Bill's grief, however, had the man walking an edge that was sharp and dangerous.
It was Melinda who had talked Bill out of suicide two week after Gillian's death.
Melinda poked Josh in the shoulder. "You aren't going to have room for Katie's snack after eating that."
Josh swallowed a bite of the chocolate cupcake, turned around, and grinned. There was chocolate on his tooth. "I always have room."
"Watch to the left," said Melinda. "The dirt path to the site will be any minute."
They watched. The van bumped along, spraying gravel dust out behind it, dipping around curves and smacking potholes. And then out of nowhere a man stepped into the roadin front of them. He turned and stared like a deer caught in headlights. His black hair was greasy, his eyebrows as bushy as a bear's. Over one shoulder was a fishing pole and tackle bag. In the other arm was an ax.
Bill stomped the brake and laid on the horn. The van shuddered and skidded to a halt.
Bill's head shot from the window. "Get the fuck off the road, asshole!"
Melinda's heart jumped at Bill's shout. The man in the road squinted then sauntered off into the trees.
"Goddamned moron," Bill said. His shoulders began to shake; his voice was tremulous. He sounded close to tears. "Goddamned inbred insipid moron. Why don't people look?" All three sat for a moment. Bill's breathing was heavy and loud, like a steam engine roaring. His neck was flushed red. Josh caught Melinda's hand and gave it a squeeze. After a long moment, Bill said, in a near whisper, “I m sorry.”
"No problem," said Josh.
"It's okay," Melinda managed. Goddamn it all!
"I want us all to have a good time," said Bill.
"So do we," said Josh. "We're going to have a good time. I promise."
"Thanks for being our friends," Bill said. "I've never had such good friends as you two."
Melinda said softly, "You're welcome." Goddamn it to hell, we don't need any scares this week.
Bill pressed the accelerator; the van moved on.
And then the dirt path was there. Bill slowed the vehicle. "Ah," said Josh. "My bet is banana boats. Please let them be banana boats."
"I forgot my camera," said Melinda. She smacked Josh on the shoulder. "You let me forget my camera!"
"Nothing to take pictures of, 'cept lions and tigers and bears."
"Oh, my," said Melinda.
Bill steered the van onto the rutted pathway. The branches above were quite low, and Melinda instinctively dipped her head a bit as they drove under them.
The van stopped beside the trunk of a wide sycamore. The three friends hopped out and stretched. A cheerful fire burned in the center dirt spot. A pile of wood was gathered and laid beside the fire. Two tent spaces had been cleared of twigs and rocks.
"Hey, nature girl really does know what she's doing," said Melinda.
"Katie?" called
John Steinbeck, Richard Astro