Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

But that’s not what happens. Instead I find my family sitting around the picnic table, talking. TALKING. Without a device, or a game, or even a book in sight.

“Mama,” cries Peter. “Are you okay?”

He hasn’t called me Mama in at least a year, maybe two.

“You went swimming,” said William, noting my wet hair. “In your shorts?”

“Without me?” says Zoe.

“I didn’t think you’d want to go. You spent half an hour blow-drying your hair this morning.”

“If you had asked I would have gone,” Zoe sniffs.

“We can swim again after dinner. It will still be light.”

“Let’s go for a hike,” says Peter.

“Now?” I say. “I was thinking I’d take a little nap.”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” says William.

“You have?”

The three of them exchange looks.

“Fine. Great. Let me change and we’ll go.”

“We’re not making enough noise,” says Zoe. “Bears only attack when they’re surprised. Or smell you. Woo-hoo. Woo-hoo, bear! ”

We’ve been hiking for over forty-five minutes. Forty-five mosquito-slapping, horse-fly-buzzing, children-whining, no-breeze-to-be-found-anywhere minutes.

“I thought this was a loop. Shouldn’t we be back already?” says Peter. “And why didn’t anybody bring a water bottle? Who goes hiking without a water bottle?”

“Run up the trail, Pedro,” I say. “Scout ahead. This is all looking very familiar to me. I’m sure we’re almost at the end. In fact, I think I hear the river.”

This is a lie. I don’t hear anything but droning insects.

Peter takes off and William yells after him, “Not too far ahead! I want you to stay in singing range. That’s the rule.”

“I beg you. Please don’t do this to me,” says Zoe.

“ Right, right, turn off the lights, we’re gonna lose our minds tonight ,” we hear Peter crooning.

Zoe rolls her eyes.

“It’s better than woo-hoo, bear ,” I tell her.

“Do you really think we’re almost there?” asks William.

“ Party crasher, penny snatcher .”

“Oh, my God. Is penny snatcher a you-know-what ?” I ask.

“What?” says William.

“You know. Something you put pennies in? A bank. A slot. A euphemism for-”

He looks at me perplexed.

“A purse?” I whisper.

“Oh my God, mother, a vagina , just say it,” says Zoe. “And it’s panty snatcher, not penny snatcher.”

“ Call me up if you a gangsta -” Peter’s voice suddenly breaks off.

We walk for another couple of minutes.

“Is there anything more ridiculous than a twelve-year-old white boy using the word ‘gangsta’?” asks Zoe.

“Zoe, shush!”

“What?”

We all stop and listen.

“I don’t hear anything,” says Zoe.

“Exactly,” I say.

William cups his hands to his mouth and yells, “We asked you to sing!”

Silence.

“Peter!”

Nothing.

William tears down the path, Zoe and me on his heels. We round the corner and find Peter frozen in place, standing not more than five feet away from a mule deer. Now, this is not a run-of-the-mill mule deer. It’s an enormous trophy buck, well over two hundred pounds, antlers as long as baguettes, and he and Peter seem to be engaged in some sort of staring contest.

“Back away slowly,” whispers William to Peter.

“Do mule deer charge?” I whisper to William.

“Slowly,” repeats William.

The buck snorts and takes a few steps toward Peter and I let out a little gasp. Peter looks like he’s under a spell: he has a half-smile on his face. Suddenly I understand what I’m witnessing. It’s a rite of passage. The kind Peter’s gone through hundreds of times in his video games, battling otherworldly creature of all sorts, ogres and sorcerers and woolly mammoths, but rarely does a twenty-first-century boy have such an opportunity in real life-to have actual physical contact with the wild thing; to lock eyes with it. Peter extends his hand as if to touch the buck’s antlers, and his sudden movement seems to wake the buck up and it darts away into the brush.

“That was unbelievable,” says Peter, turning to us, his eyes gleaming. “Did you see him looking at me?”

“You weren’t scared?” breathes Zoe.

“He smelled like grass,” Peter says. “Like rocks.”

William looks at me and shakes his head in wonder.

On the way back, we hike through the woods single-file. Peter leads the way, then Zoe, then me, then William bringing up the rear. Occasionally the setting sun pierces through the trees-magenta, then bright orange. I tip my face up to receive the warmth. The light feels like a benediction.

William reaches for my hand.

I wake in the middle of the night to the sound of Zoe screaming. William and I bolt up and look at each other.

“It is an old wives’ tale,” he says, “isn’t it?”

In the few seconds it takes to untangle ourselves from our sleeping bags and unzip the tent, we hear three more very disconcerting sounds: Peter roaring, the sound of feet pounding across the dirt, and then Peter screaming, too.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I cry. “Hurry up, get out!”

“Give me that flashlight!” yells William.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to brain the bear with it, what do you think I’m going to do with it?”

“Make lots of noise. Scream. Wave your arms about,” I say, but William is gone.

I take a few deep breaths, then crawl out after him, and here’s what I see: Zoe in her nightgown and bare feet, brandishing a guitar like a bat. Jude kneeling, his head bowed, as if he’s on the chopping block. Peter sprawled on the ground, and William beside him.

“He’s okay,” William yells to me.

A few people from neighboring campsites have run over and stand on the perimeter of our campsite. All of them are wearing headlamps. They look like miners, except for their pajamas.

“Everything’s okay,” William tells them. “Go back to your tents. We’ve got it under control.”

“What happened!” I shout.

“I’m so sorry, Alice,” says Jude.

“Are you crying, Jude?” asks Zoe, lowering the guitar, her face softening.

“Where’s the bear?” I shout. “Did it run off?”

“No bear,” moans Peter.

“It was Jude,” says Zoe.

“Jude attacked Peter?”

“I just wanted to surprise Zoe,” says Jude. “I wrote her a song.”

I run to Peter’s side. His shirt is rolled up and I see a gash in his stomach. I cover my mouth with my hand.

“Pedro heard me scream and was trying to save me,” says Zoe. “With his marshmallow roasting stick.”

“He was running with it,” says Jude. “It got stuck in the ground.”

“Then he impaled himself,” says Zoe.

“Screw you,” groans Peter. “I fell on my sword for you.”

“There’s hardly any blood. That’s not good,” says William, shining the flashlight on the wound.

“What’s that yellow stuff that’s curling out?” I ask. “Pus?”

“I think it’s fat,” says William.

Peter squeals.

“That’s okay, that’s fine, nothing to worry about,” I say, trying to sound like fat poking out of a wound is an ordinary thing. “Everybody has fat.”

“It means it’s pretty deep, Alice,” whispers William. “He’s going to need stitches. We need to bring him to the ER.”

“I just saw that movie Say Anything with John Cusack and I got inspired,” explains Jude.

“ ‘In Your Eyes . ’ I love Peter Gabriel,” grunts Peter. “Your song better be worth it.”