Pioneers
by Margo McCall
When I get back from washing clothes in the stream, a classic white Chrysler Imperial has pulled in next to where Cal and I are camped. Hanging our dripping t-shirts and shorts on the line, I imagine the driver’s a glamour queen straight from Mad Men, a Marilyn Monroe type with frosted lipstick and tight capris.
But the woman who drags herself from the driver’s seat is nothing like that. She’s dumpy, with stringy yellow hair and a sunburned face. Two miniature versions of her hop from the backseat.
Like us, they must have been camping for awhile. I’ve lost track of time. No radio, television, computers, or phones—just one sunny day blending into the next. Summers in the Sierras are beautiful, no other word for it.
Cal and I are filling with sunlight and happiness. The smell of pine is everywhere—in the air and water, bursting from the needle-covered dirt, exploding from our crackling campfire at night. The stream has been speaking to me, and as I walk over the ancient granite, I feel its age.
Crawling in the tent to tell Cal about the new development, my weight on the air mattress wakes him from his afternoon nap. “Nice snooze?” I ask as he opens his eyes.
“I’m sure going to miss this,” he says, pulling me toward him. We roll around and kiss, but when he starts pulling at my tank top, I say, “Hold on, let me zip the tent. We’ve got neighbors.”
Cal’s eyes widen. “Neighbors?”
“Looks like a mom and two girls,” I whisper. “You should see what she’s driving—a classic car in mint condition.”
Cal’s forgotten all about taking off my tank top as he peers out the tent door. “What a beaut,” he says. “Kind of weird to bring a car like that camping, though.”
Seeing the car is the most exciting thing that’s happened all week. We’ve been getting up early, going on long hikes all day, then returning to the campsite for dinner and evening fire.
We’ve gone wild. Cal’s chin is covered with golden whiskers and his tanned skin smells of earth. Without soap and lotion, my skin smells the same way—not yet like pine, but of soil and running water. I looked at myself through the truck’s side mirror earlier, and barely recognized who I saw.
Sam, our Shepherd mix, has become wild too. On high alert, especially after dark when the bears come through. He’s been running free, splashing in streams, clambering over boulders, chasing squirrels. Right now, though, he’s tied to a tree in accordance with campground rules.
“Well,” says Cal, getting out of the tent and grabbing his fishing rod. “Guess I better try and catch us some dinner.” He unties Sam and off they go.
I use the time to think about what to make. Last night, it was bean burritos. Sorting through the food bin, I wonder what I can make with a couple of potatoes, a red pepper, an onion, and the last two cobs of corn. I hope Cal catches a trout. We’re almost out of food.
Being from the city, I mind my own business. But my eyes keep sneaking back to the glamorous car, running over its sleek lines, taking in the gleaming chrome crown on its bumper.
The trunk lid protests as the woman lifts it skyward, foraging for something in its depths. I’m guessing she’s trying to figure out what to make for dinner too.
Cal returns empty-handed, so it’s just corn on the cob and fried potatoes. We sit down to eat just as the light around us fades.
“Corn, huh?” says Cal. The little black kerosene lantern, strung up on a cord above the table, casts a glow on our food, making the corn look like chunks of ore.
I try to make dinner conversation. “Think there’s any gold in this creek?” I ask.
“Didn’t see any.”
Cal’s off his gold kick now. He used to watch that show where some guy tries to get you to sign up with the American Gold Miners Club. You get your pan, shovel and cap emblazoned with the club’s name, all for $29.95. Last year, after heavy rains, we filled three trash bags full of gold stuff that Cal said might be placer. The bags sat in our yard all winter until I finally dumped them.
Ruckus from the next campsite floats through the dusk. “You better eat that, cuz that’s all yer getting,’” says the woman, followed by the girls’ whiny protests.
We look at each other and roll our eyes.
Cal and I haven’t had a fight all week. Back in the city, we bicker. Stress of our jobs, commutes, and household responsibilities. But up here in the Sierras, we can’t find anything to disagree about.
I wash the dishes, while Cal stacks wood for the evening’s fire. By the time I’ve made our after-dinner drinks—bourbon on ice, washed with a splash of Coke—Cal’s got the fire going. As we stand around it, watching the flames, Cal talks about some movie he saw about a future time when everybody lives underground because the world’s out of oxygen. That happened because people cut down all the trees.
We’ve seen a lot of logging trucks, driving up to the mountains empty and leaving with centuries-old redwoods. “I wonder how many trees there are? I suppose there are some biologists counting them,” I say.
“I know some survey estimated 20 million have been killed by the drought,” he says.
“Did you hear about that report that predicts that climate change could put California in a drought for two centuries?” I ask.
“When you stop and think about it,” Cal says, “Humans aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. We survive seventy-seven years, outlasted by all the garbage and destruction we leave behind.”
I like it when Cal gets philosophical. It reminds me of what I loved about him in the first place. Our conversation is interrupted by more yelling from the neighbors’ campsite, which is bathed in an eerie green glow.
“What did I tell you about graham crackers?” the woman barks. “I told you five or six times.” Her yelling is followed by one of the little girls crying.
The next morning, I see the woman in Wishon Village as I’m buying ice and something for breakfast. I told Cal I’d get orange juice and eggs, but they’re out of both so I end up with a box of Cheerios, a quart of milk, and more ice.
The woman is outside at the payphone, trying to talk and keep track of her daughters. “Hold on,” she says, placing a hand over the receiver. “Hannah. Sarah. Get in the car,” she yells. “And stay away from that highway.”
Inside the truck, Sam barks at the commotion. I’ve brought him along, thinking he’d like the ride. The whole eight miles he stared out the window at the trees, maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of some wild animal.
As I fill the coolers with ice, I overhear the woman’s conversation. “I’m rationing food, and down to my last twenty bucks.” Pause. “I’m at some place called Buck Creek.” Pause. “No, I don’t think he’ll find me here.”
The road back is straight downhill. I hardly have to use any gas, and I feel good about reducing my carbon footprint for at least a few minutes. Back at the campsite, Cal’s untangling his fishing line. I can’t wait to tell him what I heard.
When the Chrysler Imperial pulls in, I wave. A minute later, the oldest girl walks over. She hesitates, standing on some imaginary boundary between the two campsites.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s your name?
“Hannah.” She sways back and forth on the balls of her feet, then blurts, “I saw that dog at the store.”
“Yeah, I saw you guys at the store too.”
She sways some more, then asks, “Can I pet your dog?”
I take Sam over on his leash. “Just put your hand out and let him sniff it first,” I say.
“Are you our neighbors?” Hannah asks, holding her hand toward Sam.
“I guess for a couple of days.”
Hannah’s worried eyebrows are several shades darker than her hair. “Can I hold the leash?” she asks.
“Sure, but hang on tight.”
Just as I hand her the leash, Sam lunges forward, dragging Hannah behind him. I end up at the Imperial’s bumper, where the woman is pawing through stuff in the trunk.
“Hi, I’m Tracy. That’s my husband, Cal,” I say, pointing back to our site, where Cal is still fussing with his fishing gear. He looks up, and I gesture for him to come over.
“Teresa,” she says, smiling broadly enough for me to see she’s missing an eye tooth. Her face is round and happy, but there’s a jagged scar below her right eye.
Cal wanders over. He nods at Teresa before letting his eyes roam over the Imperial’s fine lines. Close up, the car’s even more magnificent, with red leather interior and miles of shiny chrome.
“Nice car,” he says.
“Got it for eight hundred from some guy going into a retirement home, but people tell me it’s worth four grand,” she says. “This is the first summer I’ve had a car. We’ve been all over the place. Right, girls?”
The girls nod, then go back to letting Sam lick dirt from their faces.
Teresa reaches into the red leather side pocket and arranges a fan of maps and brochures on the hood. “Check it out—Disneyland, Magic Mountain, Fisherman’s Wharf, even the Hearst Castle. Trying to give my girls a good summer.”
Teresa smiles the whole time, seeming lit up from within. I wonder if she’s one of those religious fanatics or is just on some really good antidepressants. Then a crease appears between her eyebrows. “One thing though. I hit a rock and cracked something in the engine.”
She bends to retrieve a pail full of what looks like red transmission fluid from under the car. “I put a bucket under here to catch the drippings,” Teresa says. “We should have just enough to make it home.”
Cal opens the hood and takes a look. “You should get more fluid. Transmission goes, fixing it will cost more than you paid for the car.”
Later that afternoon, Cal catches two trout. As he’s cleaning them, Hannah again approaches the imaginary boundary. “Do you have a shovel?” she asks.
“Sure, hang on.” I pull out the Army shovel we use to spread dirt on dying campfires. When I get over there, Teresa’s digging in the dirt with a spoon.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I thought it would be fun to make an oven. Something I read about—you dig a hole and throw in some charcoal and build up some coals.”
“How big do you want it?” I ask.
She points to a fire-blackened pot. “Big enough for that.”
I place the tip of the shovel in the dirt, then press it in with a boot. “It helps if you have the right tools,” I say.
“Yeah, we just grabbed a few things from home. The first few nights we didn’t even have a light. Then I got this glow-strip at the store for five bucks.” She points to the greenish strip hanging from their clothesline.
I look at what’s scattered on their picnic table. No cooler, no cook stove—just stuff from their kitchen at home. I admire her courage. “Seen any sign of B-E-A-R-S ?” I ask, spelling out the word so as not to alarm her daughters.
Teresa laughs. “Don’t bother. They can spell.” She scratches at a mosquito bite on her arm. “I feel a lot safer here than in Fresno. Down there, somebody’s always calling the cops. Shots fired or somebody getting beat up.”
One of those somethings, she tells me, is her ex-husband. “He’s always pulling some shit, trying to break into my place when he’s drunk. Last time I had him put away. He’s gonna come after me when he gets out.” She laughs. “He won’t find us here.”
“So, what are you gonna make in your oven?” I ask, changing the subject.
Her face lights up. “Well, I have potatoes and onions and Spam, so I thought I’d make a kind of casserole.”
“That sounds really good.”
“Hope the kids eat it,” she says with a flash of disappointment. “They haven’t liked anything so far. They keep wanting pizza or McDonald’s.”
As Teresa slices up squares of Spam, we get to talking about the various places to go up here in the Sierras. Dinkey Creek Campground. Gigantua, full of huge cedars. Lake Huntington, which feels like a 1940s resort.
“Been to Big Creek?” Teresa asks.
“Is that the place where the Edison people live?”
“Yeah, just a bunch of old shacks carved into the mountain.”
Cal and I once drove from the King’s River into Big Creek, the Edison company town. There were places the road was no more than a few logs jutting out from vertical rock. I faced mortality sitting in the passenger seat looking down into that three-thousand-foot gorge.
“You know, those people live here year-round,” Teresa says. “Heard the kids have to ride horses through the snow to get to their one-room schoolhouse, just like pioneers.”
“I wouldn’t want to be here in the winter,” I say.
“I’d love to be a pioneer,” says Teresa, looking all dreamy-eyed. “It sounds kind of exciting, being up here in the mountains on your own. Everybody taking care of each other.”
Later, Cal and I are looking at the map by candlelight, trying to figure out where to stop on our way home, when I hear Teresa yell, “Then you’ll have to go to bed without dinner.”
“Guess they didn’t like what she cooked in the oven,” I say.
It’s our last night. We stand by the fire looking up at the sky, which is a galaxy of stupendousness. I move into a clearing to better see the piercing points of brightness suspended in the milky halo of distant stars. As I stand, head bent back, I think of constellation names: Capricorn, Orion, Gemini. For just a second, I feel united with the ages of people who used the skies to navigate, then I remember that tomorrow we’ll be back in the city, getting ready to go back to work.
“Don’t you wish we could stay here longer?” I ask Cal as we snuggle in our sleeping bags.
“It’s like this every time we leave,” Cal says, stroking my hair. “We go through all this anxiety about leaving our possessions, then once we’re free of them we don’t want to ever see them again.”
I fall into a restless sleep where I dream, I live in a cave carved from rock by water and wind. It’s cozy and protected. I’m woken up by Sam’s barking.
“Leave me alone, you motherfucker,” screams someone. It sounds like Teresa.
Then a man’s voice. “Give me the goddamn keys.”
There’s some banging, grunting, and cursing, followed by someone’s anguished wail.
Cal pulls on his jeans. “Don’t go out there,” I plead. “What if her crazy ex has a gun?”
Cal doesn’t seem to have heard me. He unzips the tent and runs into the night. Sam’s going crazy inside the truck. From the next campsite over, the girls’ cries are heartbreaking.
By the time I get there with the flashlight, Cal’s got the guy in a chokehold and Teresa’s delivering somebody blows.
“You useless shit,” she roars. “That car is mine.”
I shine the light in the guy’s face. Blood from a gash on his forehead drips into mean, red-rimmed eyes. He tries to explain. “She stole the keys. Check the car registration in my pocket.”
“Grab Sam’s rope,” Cal yells to me.
I do as he says, and together, Teresa and I manage to tie his hands behind his back, while Cal presses his arm into the guy’s windpipe. There’s even enough rope left to bind his ankles. Cal lets go of his neck and he falls to the ground like firewood.
The girls approach in their pajamas, rubbing their dirty, tear-stained faces. I have the image of covered pioneer wagons huddled in a tight circle against a blizzard moving in from the north. “What happened?” I ask Teresa.
She shrugs. “He came in the tent. I whacked him with a piece of firewood. Didn’t think I’d be waiting for him. Well, I have. Every night. Surprised it took him this long to show up.”
I barely hear Cal say, “We better call the paramedics—he looks pretty banged up.”
Teresa laughs. “No, just let him die.”
Cal looks at her with disgust. “Call 911,” he tells me.
I walk to the edge of the campground where there’s cell reception and tell the operator what happened. She puts me on hold, then comes back on the line. “Forest Service is en route.”
When the Forest Service arrives, they cuff the ex-husband when they find out he’s on parole. “But wait, she stole my car,” he protests as they load him into their vehicle.
They don’t arrest Teresa but tell her not to leave the area. They also take our contact information in case there are questions later.
After they’re gone, Teresa lets out a whoop. Cal gives her a hard stare. “Did you steal his car?” he asks. She just smiles.
It’s hard to get back to sleep, but we finally catch a couple of hours. And in the morning, when we wake up and break camp, the Chrysler Imperial is gone.
But the woman who drags herself from the driver’s seat is nothing like that. She’s dumpy, with stringy yellow hair and a sunburned face. Two miniature versions of her hop from the backseat.
Like us, they must have been camping for awhile. I’ve lost track of time. No radio, television, computers, or phones—just one sunny day blending into the next. Summers in the Sierras are beautiful, no other word for it.
Cal and I are filling with sunlight and happiness. The smell of pine is everywhere—in the air and water, bursting from the needle-covered dirt, exploding from our crackling campfire at night. The stream has been speaking to me, and as I walk over the ancient granite, I feel its age.
Crawling in the tent to tell Cal about the new development, my weight on the air mattress wakes him from his afternoon nap. “Nice snooze?” I ask as he opens his eyes.
“I’m sure going to miss this,” he says, pulling me toward him. We roll around and kiss, but when he starts pulling at my tank top, I say, “Hold on, let me zip the tent. We’ve got neighbors.”
Cal’s eyes widen. “Neighbors?”
“Looks like a mom and two girls,” I whisper. “You should see what she’s driving—a classic car in mint condition.”
Cal’s forgotten all about taking off my tank top as he peers out the tent door. “What a beaut,” he says. “Kind of weird to bring a car like that camping, though.”
Seeing the car is the most exciting thing that’s happened all week. We’ve been getting up early, going on long hikes all day, then returning to the campsite for dinner and evening fire.
We’ve gone wild. Cal’s chin is covered with golden whiskers and his tanned skin smells of earth. Without soap and lotion, my skin smells the same way—not yet like pine, but of soil and running water. I looked at myself through the truck’s side mirror earlier, and barely recognized who I saw.
Sam, our Shepherd mix, has become wild too. On high alert, especially after dark when the bears come through. He’s been running free, splashing in streams, clambering over boulders, chasing squirrels. Right now, though, he’s tied to a tree in accordance with campground rules.
“Well,” says Cal, getting out of the tent and grabbing his fishing rod. “Guess I better try and catch us some dinner.” He unties Sam and off they go.
I use the time to think about what to make. Last night, it was bean burritos. Sorting through the food bin, I wonder what I can make with a couple of potatoes, a red pepper, an onion, and the last two cobs of corn. I hope Cal catches a trout. We’re almost out of food.
Being from the city, I mind my own business. But my eyes keep sneaking back to the glamorous car, running over its sleek lines, taking in the gleaming chrome crown on its bumper.
The trunk lid protests as the woman lifts it skyward, foraging for something in its depths. I’m guessing she’s trying to figure out what to make for dinner too.
Cal returns empty-handed, so it’s just corn on the cob and fried potatoes. We sit down to eat just as the light around us fades.
“Corn, huh?” says Cal. The little black kerosene lantern, strung up on a cord above the table, casts a glow on our food, making the corn look like chunks of ore.
I try to make dinner conversation. “Think there’s any gold in this creek?” I ask.
“Didn’t see any.”
Cal’s off his gold kick now. He used to watch that show where some guy tries to get you to sign up with the American Gold Miners Club. You get your pan, shovel and cap emblazoned with the club’s name, all for $29.95. Last year, after heavy rains, we filled three trash bags full of gold stuff that Cal said might be placer. The bags sat in our yard all winter until I finally dumped them.
Ruckus from the next campsite floats through the dusk. “You better eat that, cuz that’s all yer getting,’” says the woman, followed by the girls’ whiny protests.
We look at each other and roll our eyes.
Cal and I haven’t had a fight all week. Back in the city, we bicker. Stress of our jobs, commutes, and household responsibilities. But up here in the Sierras, we can’t find anything to disagree about.
I wash the dishes, while Cal stacks wood for the evening’s fire. By the time I’ve made our after-dinner drinks—bourbon on ice, washed with a splash of Coke—Cal’s got the fire going. As we stand around it, watching the flames, Cal talks about some movie he saw about a future time when everybody lives underground because the world’s out of oxygen. That happened because people cut down all the trees.
We’ve seen a lot of logging trucks, driving up to the mountains empty and leaving with centuries-old redwoods. “I wonder how many trees there are? I suppose there are some biologists counting them,” I say.
“I know some survey estimated 20 million have been killed by the drought,” he says.
“Did you hear about that report that predicts that climate change could put California in a drought for two centuries?” I ask.
“When you stop and think about it,” Cal says, “Humans aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. We survive seventy-seven years, outlasted by all the garbage and destruction we leave behind.”
I like it when Cal gets philosophical. It reminds me of what I loved about him in the first place. Our conversation is interrupted by more yelling from the neighbors’ campsite, which is bathed in an eerie green glow.
“What did I tell you about graham crackers?” the woman barks. “I told you five or six times.” Her yelling is followed by one of the little girls crying.
The next morning, I see the woman in Wishon Village as I’m buying ice and something for breakfast. I told Cal I’d get orange juice and eggs, but they’re out of both so I end up with a box of Cheerios, a quart of milk, and more ice.
The woman is outside at the payphone, trying to talk and keep track of her daughters. “Hold on,” she says, placing a hand over the receiver. “Hannah. Sarah. Get in the car,” she yells. “And stay away from that highway.”
Inside the truck, Sam barks at the commotion. I’ve brought him along, thinking he’d like the ride. The whole eight miles he stared out the window at the trees, maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of some wild animal.
As I fill the coolers with ice, I overhear the woman’s conversation. “I’m rationing food, and down to my last twenty bucks.” Pause. “I’m at some place called Buck Creek.” Pause. “No, I don’t think he’ll find me here.”
The road back is straight downhill. I hardly have to use any gas, and I feel good about reducing my carbon footprint for at least a few minutes. Back at the campsite, Cal’s untangling his fishing line. I can’t wait to tell him what I heard.
When the Chrysler Imperial pulls in, I wave. A minute later, the oldest girl walks over. She hesitates, standing on some imaginary boundary between the two campsites.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s your name?
“Hannah.” She sways back and forth on the balls of her feet, then blurts, “I saw that dog at the store.”
“Yeah, I saw you guys at the store too.”
She sways some more, then asks, “Can I pet your dog?”
I take Sam over on his leash. “Just put your hand out and let him sniff it first,” I say.
“Are you our neighbors?” Hannah asks, holding her hand toward Sam.
“I guess for a couple of days.”
Hannah’s worried eyebrows are several shades darker than her hair. “Can I hold the leash?” she asks.
“Sure, but hang on tight.”
Just as I hand her the leash, Sam lunges forward, dragging Hannah behind him. I end up at the Imperial’s bumper, where the woman is pawing through stuff in the trunk.
“Hi, I’m Tracy. That’s my husband, Cal,” I say, pointing back to our site, where Cal is still fussing with his fishing gear. He looks up, and I gesture for him to come over.
“Teresa,” she says, smiling broadly enough for me to see she’s missing an eye tooth. Her face is round and happy, but there’s a jagged scar below her right eye.
Cal wanders over. He nods at Teresa before letting his eyes roam over the Imperial’s fine lines. Close up, the car’s even more magnificent, with red leather interior and miles of shiny chrome.
“Nice car,” he says.
“Got it for eight hundred from some guy going into a retirement home, but people tell me it’s worth four grand,” she says. “This is the first summer I’ve had a car. We’ve been all over the place. Right, girls?”
The girls nod, then go back to letting Sam lick dirt from their faces.
Teresa reaches into the red leather side pocket and arranges a fan of maps and brochures on the hood. “Check it out—Disneyland, Magic Mountain, Fisherman’s Wharf, even the Hearst Castle. Trying to give my girls a good summer.”
Teresa smiles the whole time, seeming lit up from within. I wonder if she’s one of those religious fanatics or is just on some really good antidepressants. Then a crease appears between her eyebrows. “One thing though. I hit a rock and cracked something in the engine.”
She bends to retrieve a pail full of what looks like red transmission fluid from under the car. “I put a bucket under here to catch the drippings,” Teresa says. “We should have just enough to make it home.”
Cal opens the hood and takes a look. “You should get more fluid. Transmission goes, fixing it will cost more than you paid for the car.”
Later that afternoon, Cal catches two trout. As he’s cleaning them, Hannah again approaches the imaginary boundary. “Do you have a shovel?” she asks.
“Sure, hang on.” I pull out the Army shovel we use to spread dirt on dying campfires. When I get over there, Teresa’s digging in the dirt with a spoon.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I thought it would be fun to make an oven. Something I read about—you dig a hole and throw in some charcoal and build up some coals.”
“How big do you want it?” I ask.
She points to a fire-blackened pot. “Big enough for that.”
I place the tip of the shovel in the dirt, then press it in with a boot. “It helps if you have the right tools,” I say.
“Yeah, we just grabbed a few things from home. The first few nights we didn’t even have a light. Then I got this glow-strip at the store for five bucks.” She points to the greenish strip hanging from their clothesline.
I look at what’s scattered on their picnic table. No cooler, no cook stove—just stuff from their kitchen at home. I admire her courage. “Seen any sign of B-E-A-R-S ?” I ask, spelling out the word so as not to alarm her daughters.
Teresa laughs. “Don’t bother. They can spell.” She scratches at a mosquito bite on her arm. “I feel a lot safer here than in Fresno. Down there, somebody’s always calling the cops. Shots fired or somebody getting beat up.”
One of those somethings, she tells me, is her ex-husband. “He’s always pulling some shit, trying to break into my place when he’s drunk. Last time I had him put away. He’s gonna come after me when he gets out.” She laughs. “He won’t find us here.”
“So, what are you gonna make in your oven?” I ask, changing the subject.
Her face lights up. “Well, I have potatoes and onions and Spam, so I thought I’d make a kind of casserole.”
“That sounds really good.”
“Hope the kids eat it,” she says with a flash of disappointment. “They haven’t liked anything so far. They keep wanting pizza or McDonald’s.”
As Teresa slices up squares of Spam, we get to talking about the various places to go up here in the Sierras. Dinkey Creek Campground. Gigantua, full of huge cedars. Lake Huntington, which feels like a 1940s resort.
“Been to Big Creek?” Teresa asks.
“Is that the place where the Edison people live?”
“Yeah, just a bunch of old shacks carved into the mountain.”
Cal and I once drove from the King’s River into Big Creek, the Edison company town. There were places the road was no more than a few logs jutting out from vertical rock. I faced mortality sitting in the passenger seat looking down into that three-thousand-foot gorge.
“You know, those people live here year-round,” Teresa says. “Heard the kids have to ride horses through the snow to get to their one-room schoolhouse, just like pioneers.”
“I wouldn’t want to be here in the winter,” I say.
“I’d love to be a pioneer,” says Teresa, looking all dreamy-eyed. “It sounds kind of exciting, being up here in the mountains on your own. Everybody taking care of each other.”
Later, Cal and I are looking at the map by candlelight, trying to figure out where to stop on our way home, when I hear Teresa yell, “Then you’ll have to go to bed without dinner.”
“Guess they didn’t like what she cooked in the oven,” I say.
It’s our last night. We stand by the fire looking up at the sky, which is a galaxy of stupendousness. I move into a clearing to better see the piercing points of brightness suspended in the milky halo of distant stars. As I stand, head bent back, I think of constellation names: Capricorn, Orion, Gemini. For just a second, I feel united with the ages of people who used the skies to navigate, then I remember that tomorrow we’ll be back in the city, getting ready to go back to work.
“Don’t you wish we could stay here longer?” I ask Cal as we snuggle in our sleeping bags.
“It’s like this every time we leave,” Cal says, stroking my hair. “We go through all this anxiety about leaving our possessions, then once we’re free of them we don’t want to ever see them again.”
I fall into a restless sleep where I dream, I live in a cave carved from rock by water and wind. It’s cozy and protected. I’m woken up by Sam’s barking.
“Leave me alone, you motherfucker,” screams someone. It sounds like Teresa.
Then a man’s voice. “Give me the goddamn keys.”
There’s some banging, grunting, and cursing, followed by someone’s anguished wail.
Cal pulls on his jeans. “Don’t go out there,” I plead. “What if her crazy ex has a gun?”
Cal doesn’t seem to have heard me. He unzips the tent and runs into the night. Sam’s going crazy inside the truck. From the next campsite over, the girls’ cries are heartbreaking.
By the time I get there with the flashlight, Cal’s got the guy in a chokehold and Teresa’s delivering somebody blows.
“You useless shit,” she roars. “That car is mine.”
I shine the light in the guy’s face. Blood from a gash on his forehead drips into mean, red-rimmed eyes. He tries to explain. “She stole the keys. Check the car registration in my pocket.”
“Grab Sam’s rope,” Cal yells to me.
I do as he says, and together, Teresa and I manage to tie his hands behind his back, while Cal presses his arm into the guy’s windpipe. There’s even enough rope left to bind his ankles. Cal lets go of his neck and he falls to the ground like firewood.
The girls approach in their pajamas, rubbing their dirty, tear-stained faces. I have the image of covered pioneer wagons huddled in a tight circle against a blizzard moving in from the north. “What happened?” I ask Teresa.
She shrugs. “He came in the tent. I whacked him with a piece of firewood. Didn’t think I’d be waiting for him. Well, I have. Every night. Surprised it took him this long to show up.”
I barely hear Cal say, “We better call the paramedics—he looks pretty banged up.”
Teresa laughs. “No, just let him die.”
Cal looks at her with disgust. “Call 911,” he tells me.
I walk to the edge of the campground where there’s cell reception and tell the operator what happened. She puts me on hold, then comes back on the line. “Forest Service is en route.”
When the Forest Service arrives, they cuff the ex-husband when they find out he’s on parole. “But wait, she stole my car,” he protests as they load him into their vehicle.
They don’t arrest Teresa but tell her not to leave the area. They also take our contact information in case there are questions later.
After they’re gone, Teresa lets out a whoop. Cal gives her a hard stare. “Did you steal his car?” he asks. She just smiles.
It’s hard to get back to sleep, but we finally catch a couple of hours. And in the morning, when we wake up and break camp, the Chrysler Imperial is gone.
Margo McCall’s short stories have been featured in Pacific Review, Heliotrope, In*tense, Sunspinner, Sidewalks, Rockhurst Review, Toasted Cheese, and other journals. Her nonfiction has appeared in Herizons, Lifeboat: A Journal of Memoir, Pilgrimage, the Los Angeles Times, and other publications. She is a graduate of the M.A. creative writing program at California State University Northridge. She lives in the port town of Long Beach, California. Visit her at www.margomccall.com.