David Gates - Preston Falls

Actually, taking the kids camping is about the last thing she wants to do. But hanging on here — well, it's not that she couldn't do it, because what else is her life about? Yet if only they could have just one moment, one image to take away of summer and family, one smell of campfires and pine trees. . Pathetic. And her little speech about hot dogs: what was that supposed to do — bring Willis to his knees? Well, they will cook hot dogs — she'll pick up some vegetables to grill for Mel — and there must be a ball someplace that Rathbone hasn't ruined.

So stupid. She should have seen all this coming. Like his Prince Hamlet period when she was pregnant with Mel — no, even before that. Right from the first. But: towels. She has to remember towels. And something to sit on at the beach — another blanket? And her bathing suit, which is where? {Their suits they took with them to the Bjorks'.) Flashlight. Bug stuff. Sunscreen. She could kill him for making her do this. Except it's her idea. Camera: to carry out the pretense that this will be something they'll want to look back on. Still, it should be fine, right?

Cook hot dogs and go swimming? They'd probably think it was weird if their father was there.

Willis finds everybody down at the pond. The Bjork kids — Nelson, Frida and little Amina, the adopted one — are out in the inflatable boat, yelling. Mel's sunning on the dock, bikini top unfastened. Roger's at the far side of the pond, stalking frogs on the bank the Bjorks left muddy on the advice of a pond consultant. It's that summer's-over-but-we're-pretending-it's-not vibe. He calls out a hearty good morning to whom it may concern. The Bjork kids stare, then go back to yelling; Mel lifts and lowers a limp hand, a gesture he's supposed to take for a wave; Roger doesn't even look up. Willis guesses from the look of things that his kids have outstayed what welcome there was.

Arthur and Katherine Bjork are sitting at the edge of their trucked-in sand in honest-to-God wooden Adirondack chairs, each with a piece of the Sunday Times; the sections they're not reading are weighted down by an antique brick with an embossed star. On the broad, flat arm of Arthur's chair, a cloth napkin and both halves of a plump bagel mounded high with scallion cream cheese. Arthur Bjork is one of those fat, red-faced walrus-men, with blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses; scrawny, overtanned Katherine must have to get on top if they bother anymore, though Willis is a great one to talk.

"So how has it been?" he says.

"Oh, fine." Katherine Bjork always sounds borderline exasperated, with good reason for all Willis knows. Or fucking cares.

"No problems?"

"Well, none to speak of," says Arthur. Poor son of a bitch looks like he's hanging on by his fingernails until he can get back to the office Tuesday morning.

"Good, good," says Willis. Hear no evil. "Yo, Melanie and Rogerl" he calls. "Time to hit it, guys."

"Darn," says Mel. Roger just goes on doing what he's doing.

"Your mother has a surprise for you," says Willis.

"What kind of surprise?" says Mel.

"Hold still, you cocksucker!" Roger yells.

"Roger! Get the hell over here!" Willis shouts. "I apologize for my son," he says to the space between the Bjorks.

PRESTON FALLS

Roger comes trudging over. "I wasn't gonna hurt him," he says.

"You don't use language like that," says Willis, fixing him with a pointed finger. "Go get in the truck. Now.''

"I have to get my stuff."

"I said: in the truck, mister." Ooh, the heavy father. Mister, yet. Roger, head down, starts making his way toward the driveway. "Melanie," Willis says. She's guiltily hooking the top of her suit behind her back, skinny elbows out like chicken wings. "Get your clothes on, collect your brother's gear, and get in the truck."

"Can't I just put a shirt over my suit?" she says.

"I don't care what you wear. I want you in that truck in two minutes."

Since the Bjorks are right there, she risks an eye roll as she turns and heads for the house.

"Rog-^r?" Willis calls. Roger's not exactly hauling ass, and stops dead when he hears his name. ''Move it." He resumes ambling up the path.

"We seem to be having one of those days," Willis says to the Bjorks.

"Well, I guess we all have them." Arthur doesn't even deign to put down the Travel section.

"Except you, right?" says Willis. "You fat fuck."

That gets the son of a bitch focused: down goes the paper, covering his sausage thighs like a skirt, as Katherine's mouth opens to an O. (Billie Burke couldn't have done it better.) Mel stops but doesn't turn around.

"I think you'd better go," Arthur says, though he doesn't stand up.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Crazy motherfucker named Willis. The Bjorks just look at each other. Willis can imagine: Arthur's thinking his wife expects him to deck this guy, and she's thinking if her old man gets in a fistfight he'll finally have that heart attack. Out on the pond, the Bjork kids have the rubber boat spinning as if in a whirlpool, slashing away with the paddles, whooping and shrieking. Willis turns to follow his children up the path, and only now does his chest start pounding. Christ, he's the one who's going to have the fucking heart attack. He hauls off and kicks over the milk can the Bjorks have put at the head of the path to amp up the country charm, then looks back toward the pond. Resolutely, the Bjorks face the water.

As the truck goes rumbling and crunching down the white-graveled drive, Mel stares at her feet. "Daddy, I can't believe you said that to him."

S I

"What'd he say?" says Roger.

"Nothing, Roger," says Mel.

"You can tell him," Willis says. "Long as it's a direct quote, you're off the hook."

Mel, still looking at her feet, turns red.

"What?" yeUs Roger.

"Well, for reasons I don't fully understand myself," Willis says, "I called Mr. Bjork a fat pig."

"That's not exactly what you said, Daddy," Mel says.

"What did he say?'' says Roger.

Mel takes a breath and looks out the window. "He called Mr. Bjork afat f-u-c-k."

"All right" says Willis. "Melanie has spelled/«c^ for us. We've all heard the word, yes?"

Mel and Roger say nothing. He grinds gears as he shifts down to make the turn onto County Road 39; can't decide if the clutch is really going or if he's babying it and not pushing the pedal down far enough because he thinks the clutch is going.

"So," he says. "Isn't anybody curious about this surprise?"

''What surprise?" says Roger.

"Should I just tell you?" Willis says.

"Yes," says Roger.

Mel says nothing.

"Okay, what it is, you guys are going camping with your mom this afternoon."

"Do we have to?" says Roger.

"I knew you'd be thrilled to the—"

"Daddy, watch where you're going" says Mel. Willis swerves back over to his side to miss a tractor, cutter bar down, mowing brush on the other side of the road. "Are you coming too?" she says.

"No. I'm going to stay and see if I can't get some work done. Rathbone'U keep me company "

"I don't want to," says Roger.

"You," says Willis. "We haven't gotten around to you yet, mister. What's gotten into you, using that kind of language around people?"

"So? Look what you said."

"True," says Willis. "But the difference is—" Right. What is the difference? "Look. This is the kind of thing where, you know, fairly or uniairly, if you're a kid, it sounds worse to people than it does if you're

PRESTON FALLS

a grownup," Great: he's just told Roger how he can get a rise out of people. "When they hear you using bad language, they're going to think, Well, that's a bad person, and I don't want to be that person's friend."

"So? If they don't want to be my friend they don't have to be."

"What?" Willis has blanked out for a second. What the fuck are they talking about?