ME (5:02PM): I’m done writing for the day
BOWEN (5:03PM): Meet you out front in 15
After waiting on the front steps for a few minutes, I recognize Bowen’s black hair as he crosses the parking lot. He catches sight of me and veers to the right, slowing as he approaches the steps.
He comes to a halt a few inches from my sneakers and cocks his head, “You clean up nice.”
He’s blunt. Another aspect I find appealing.
“I know, right?” I flash him a smile as I hop down onto the sidewalk, “So, what are we doing?”
“You’re coming camping,” Bowen grins and glances back across the parking lot, “with my family.”
I’m silent for a moment, contemplating this, “Your entire family?”
Coy is an understatement, he looks downright devious, “Yeah.”
Bowen turns and I follow as he starts heading for the road that leads to the lake. He did tell me he was camping with his family when we first met in the lobby. But when someone mentions their family, it can mean a lot of things. The Cleavers were a family. So were Charles Manson and his deranged followers.
We pass the cabins lining the hillside and continue beyond the RV site, following the road down a slope on the far end of the lake. Bowen walks mostly in silence until we come to a beige, wooden sign with “Bigfoot Ridge” painted in green lettering, marking the path to the campground. We descend into the woods down a dirt path before finally emerging from a tunnel of trees.
Bowen leads me down a dirt path for another minute before finally veering into a campsite bordering a meadow. A white Suburban is parked at the edge along with a silver Yukon, a black F250, and a black Explorer with Canaan Police Department stamped on the side in blue.
I motion to the Explorer, “Who’s the cop?”
Bowen glances over his shoulder at the SUV, “My brother-in-law…” then he cracks a smile, “and his brother…their dad…and my granddad’s the chief.”
Well, then...
“Not you, too?” I snicker.
“God, no,” Bowen mumbles, “that’d be the day…”
The dirt eventually fades into patches of grass with a fire ring surrounded by an array of folding camp chairs and coolers. Off to the side is a white pop-up sheltering a folding table covered in boxes, totes, and coolers. Bowen speeds up and silently moves away from me toward a petite, stocky woman with short, light brown hair and platinum highlights. She’s standing at the table with her back to us, oblivious to Bowen sneaking up on her.
“MOM!” he booms in her ear while giving her shoulders a sharp nudge.
She lets out a shrill scream and spins around, both of her fists raised in a defensive posture and her face overcome with rage and disdain. As soon as she sees Bowen, she purses her lips in irritation.
“Boy!” Bowen’s mom shouts, grabbing a box of graham crackers and hurling it at him as hard as she can.
It bounces off his hip and hits the ground while the same laughter consumes him as it did on the top of Laurel Ridge. There seems to be a theme in their family…
Suddenly, two dogs appear from behind the white Suburban, trotting up to me with their noses extended. I hold out my hand while they sniff and lick my fingers; one is a Blue Heeler that prances around my feet and gives a few yips as it pivots back toward the tents while the other is an older, much slower Rhodesian Ridgeback with a shiny, rust colored coat and floppy ears. Its mouth is white with age and seems to enjoy standing still for head scratches much more than the younger dog.
Bowen points to the Blue Heeler sniffing around the fire ring, “That’s Brody, my sister’s dog,” then he looks down at the Rhodesian Ridgeback at my side, “and this is my dog, Waylon,” he says while reaching down and patting him on the ribs, “he’s an old man, but he’ll still fuck up a raccoon.”
Next to the fire ring, there are two men each holding a beer, one with salt and pepper hair and a black goatee and the other, noticeably older, with grey hair, a cleanshaven face, and thin rimmed glasses. Next to them is a younger man with shiny chestnut hair and sharp jawline. All of them are chuckling back and forth as Bowen’s mom shoots him dirty looks.
Behind them, another woman stands in the doorway of a red tent. She rolls her eyes, having witnessed the exchange between Bowen and his mom. She has straight, shoulder-length black hair and is wearing a teal racerback tank top with ripped jeans.
“You should’ve hit him!” she calls toward the pop-up as she makes her way to a large grey cooler. She opens it and plunges her hand into the ice, fishing out two cans of Sierra Nevada, then lets the lid fall shut.
She narrows her eyes at me and hesitates for a moment, “No,” she muses, “you need something stronger to deal with him,” she says loud enough for me to hear.
She reaches back into the cooler and plucks out a bottle, shaking it off before letting the lid slam again. Then she saunters up to me and pops the cap with her keychain opener and extends her arm, offering it to me. I glance at the label reading, Bigfoot barleywine-style ale, in all-caps. How appropriate.
“I’d ask you if you want one,” she mutters in Bowen’s direction, “but I guarantee you do.”
I like her.
She cracks her own can open, takes a swig, and extends her hand, “I’m Hildy, Bowen’s sister. You must be Brett.”
“That’s me,” I say as I shake her hand.
Hildy takes a step toward me and pivots so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder.
She raises her beer, pointing in the direction of the pop-up tent with her pinky, “That’s our mom, Leona, down there having a heart attack,” then she rotates back to the fire ring, pointing at the rest of the men, “and this is our dad, Rick, our granddad, Tate, and my husband, Jay.”
Bowen opens the cooler by the fire and digs his hand into the ice, fishing out another can. He raises his beer and Hildy taps it with hers before he cracks it open.
I turn to Hildy and nod my head toward Leona, “Did he tell you he did that to me on top of a cliff yesterday?”
Hildy looks at Bowen, stone faced, and then back at me, “And you should’ve hit him, too.”
“She did,” Bowen mutters as he tilts his beer to his lips.
Hildy arches her brow, clearly impressed, and swings her arm over my shoulders spinning me around in the opposite direction, “In that case,” she raises her can in the air, calling behind her to Bowen, “bye, loser! She’s my friend, now!”
