The Story Until Now: A Great Big Book of Stories (79 page)

Parking up here on the narrow ledge is risky, given that we’re nosed into an eight thousand-foot drop, but so is shoving you up the long, windy path from the parking lot at this hour, when tourists are more likely to stray and get lost or snakebit or worse.

I funnel you into the straight and narrow, a hundred stairsteps to the brass double doors as daylight thins out and starts to go. I think up mountain gods so I can pray that Gavin and Lionel are still on deck when we hit the top. “Light’s going, so watch your step.”

You’re all mutter grumble, mutter mutter, “ … food in this place,” “ … restaurant,” “fucking starving,” “… restaurant,” Ebersole, belching, “ … food!”

The sun is in a nosedive and you’re thinking food? “There’s plenty to see once we get into the rotunda, plus the amazing Palamountain gift shop has snacks.” Yeah, I hear you snarling, “snacks!”
OK
, Clyde, think fast. “Fountain pens and snow globes with the Palamountain dome. Observatory patches, spyglass mini-scopes. Sky’s the limit, you can get meteorite fragments, powerful pills for what
ails you, moon rocks! Baseball caps and warmup jackets with the Palamountain emblem, show the people where you’ve been!”

Like that works. “ … fucking starving.”

“Food.”

The nth wonder of the
UNIVERSE
and you’re all
,
food
.
“There are marvels in the rotunda, and you can get food and drink in the gift shop on the exit side. Beef jerky, volcanic stew, moon pies.” I invent, to keep you quiet. “Whiskey singles, Palamountain wines … ”

(“
Restaurant
!”)

About the restaurant. There is no restaurant, which is not my problem. And there’s more, and this is what I’m dreading, laying out the
more.

I could tell you outright, but you don’t want to hear. You bang on your chests like uncaged gorillas in the fading light, yelling “Top of the world,” and “Bring it on,” like our lost girls will hear what big men you are and swarm out of the woods all warmed up
down there
and waiting for you to come out when the tour is done. Well, I can tell you about that. Your women are over you, and our girls … You don’t want to know. You don’t need to know that there have been Incidents, not to mention the lawsuit, so whatever you thought you heard about Troop 13, you’re wrong.

There is no Troop 13, trust me, there are no wild girls out there, get it? But if you see them coming, run! Shit, who am I to tell you rich fucks what to look out for when you can’t even be bothered to field strip your cigarettes? Fuck you and your hidden desires. I waste my life hauling you up here by the busload, with your fat wallets and I-can-buy-and-sell-you squints and I am done with you.

Ebersole straight-arms me. “I want in!”

I want him dead. “And on this level, the Waiting Room.”

This is bad. The observatory’s dark, just the one light over the keyhole to the double doors to the Waiting Room. I check my phone: no texts, no missed calls. Usually I unlock the doors and give a little speech in the Waiting Room while you file in, saying this is the air lock, the last chamber between you and the wonders of space, which is Gavin’s cue to come out and give his speech and unlock the rotunda, but the observatory is dark and Gavin isn’t here.

Where is everybody?

So I stall. “Before we go in, you need to take the circular staircase up to the observation deck and get your vanity shots. Snap the wife and kids in front of the mighty Palamountain dome.” Good thing you’re easily distracted. Every one of you tenses up, like, where to pose them and who’s first. Like the family matters. You’re all about getting off your crap screen shots so the homefolks can start
feeling bad
right now
because you’re here, and they can’t afford it. I pretend to consult my watch. “And be back here in um. Oh, fifteen.”

By that time, Gavin had better be here. There’s the Evanescent regulation for late arrivals like us, and I want you toured and gift-shopped before I break the news.

As soon as you guys tramp up the steps to the observation deck, I pull out my phone, but even Lionel isn’t picking up.

Where is everybody anyway?

“Problem?” Ebersole is back, all suspicious and mean.

“No problem.” I lock my face up tight and throw away the key. “Better hurry or you’ll lose the light.”

Randy motherfuckers you’re back in five, agitating to get inside the rotunda and get your tour because you can’t wait to get out and go hunting. You expect to ditch me and the family when you’re done and go have your way in the woods. Well, good luck with that. I hear it in your ugly laughter and your muttered asides, all rank and gross. I can smell it on you. I want to yell into the microphone, but, company regulations: I’m not allowed to say shut up
,
shut up
.
Whether or not Gavin shows, I need you inside, where I can keep track, so I say, “Welcome to the world-famous Palamountain Observatory, the largest and finest in the world.” I unlock the doors and herd you into the Waiting Room with a tired “Ta-DA.”

You damn near trample me, getting in. Good thing you don’t hear the clang as the doors behind you shut. I switch on the lights and the women relax a little bit but you guys bang on the doors to the rotunda like you bought and paid for it, “Open up!”

“Sorry for the delay, folks. The keys … ”

“Let’s get this over with.” You turn into a monster with twenty heads, teeth bared in angry growls and your flabby bodies bunched like that’s all muscle: big men. Used to getting what you want.

Sooner or later, I have to break the news.

Nobody gets into the rotunda unless Gavin shows up with the keys and nobody leaves until Lionel fires up the telescope after which the docents talk, after which there’s the light show so when I explain that we’re stuck here until morning, at least you got your money’s worth. See, after the tour I let you into the gift shop so you can load up on junk food before I lock you into the Waiting Room. If you’re eating when I tell you what happens next, it will soften the blow. Except Agatha’s in New Mexico and we’re waiting for Gavin, and Gavin isn’t anywhere.

I’ve looked.

The Lost Girls

—Now

My my, where did the time go?

Day is done, gone the sun and we’re still rollicking, laughing and frolicking in our special place, eating the catch of the day while Marcia toasts a yummy batch of s’mores over our sweet little fire. We’re down to our last mini-marshies but nobody really cares, nobody worries because that cute Claude from the valley brought another busload up the mountain today. They stopped at the Overlook, and … Melody saw. You can see practically everything from there!

Melody’s the oldest, but she wears the tattered badge sash with pride, over a sweet pink dimity something she snatched from a clothesline back in the day. Melody sees everything, and Melody knows. That girl runs these woods.

“Freeze dried eggs and fresh orange juice on that bus,” she says, “Lots of good things!”

“And Clyde’ll leave them off when he goes.”

He will. He’s never seen us but he must love us, he always puts leftovers on the rock at the Overlook when the bus goes back downhill.

Patsy giggles. “Plus whatever they’re carrying, if … ”

“If … ” It’s catching, like music. “Whatever they’re carrying if … ” If we happen to
want.

Day is done, yay for fun!

It’s not Ida Mae’s fault how she talks, she didn’t get much education; she goes, “And whoever they brung.”

Stephanie is all, “Girls, let’s hold back on this one,” but nobody listens, because she’s only been in this troop since her folks’ car broke down and she replaced Sallie Traub that was in the bear trap accident.

Marcia is like, “Stephanie, shut up,” and Steph goes, “No, you shut up,” which is not to say that Girl Scouts fight among themselves, because that would be a violation of the Girl Scout code, so Melody goes, “Girls, shhhh!”

Melody is in charge and for a minute, we do.

But Stephanie’s all this and Marcia’s all that, and people are taking sides because when we finished the
BBQ
tonight, enough wasn’t, well, quite enough. Melody’s extra worried because there’ll be tourists at the observatory tonight, and it’s after hours.

If anything happens, she has to say who and what we take and if we take somebody, what we do with them, which is a lot, so she sings:

“Day is done … ”

And we all sing, “Gone the sun,” and by the time we finish we’re pretty much chill, because that’s what Melody really means when she starts singing, she means, “Chill.”

We all lay back with our heads on our Sit-Upons and Melody’s all happy to see us settled in the firelight so she starts our most favorite, favorite story to keep us settled. It’s “The Bloody Finger of Ghostine Deck,” about something awful that happens on a boat. She strings it along and
strings
it along until the moon is high and everyone but Ida Mae Howells is snuggled down in the canebrake and sound asleep because Melody put Ida Mae on guard. She has to wake us all up if one of them strays down here, it’s so exciting!

She kind of whispers, just like this, it’s so low and so
sharp
that we know it even in our sleep:

“They’re here.”

Clyde Pritchard

Back off, assholes. It’s hard to breathe with you all up in my face. Rich fat pricks closing in, all puffed up and pushy with your needs, you’re too fucking big for the space.

“Sorry for the delay, folks. In the old days the telescope was hand operated, staff here around the clock. These days it’s all computerized, and our research assistant … ” I don’t know where Lionel is, but I can tell you what Lionel is. Lionel is late. “ … will be with you after he does a couple more things.”

I fill some time with a little spiel about the Bleeding Heart restaurant on down in the Elbow, at which point you all perk up because you’ve been agitating about the no-restaurant ever since we arrived. You finished your last pork rinds and candy bars on the Overlook and I can hear you gulping drool. I hit the high spots on the Bleeding Heart menu, from Mountain Ash Venison all the way down to Palamountain Passion, Mag’s sensational dessert, to distract you until Gavin comes, which should be any minute now except it isn’t and yeah, I know where your minds are wandering, it’s stuffy in here and it’s getting late.

Too late.
OK
then. Break the news. Tour or no tour, you will not be leaving the observatory tonight. Whatever you think you heard about Troop 13 and those
wild girls
, for your safety and mine, you’re socked in here until it gets light. I pull out the card and read the Evanescent Night-time Regulation:
Late arrivals must remain on the premises until 8.a.m
.
It’s my job to lug forty bedrolls out of the lockers when the tour’s done and we’re back in the Waiting Room, show you the toilets and vending machines and lock you in for the night.

Break it gently.

“
OK
folks, you’ll eat well at the Bleeding Heart, but it won’t be tonight. Trust
me, you’ll get your tour tomorrow morning as soon as Arnold comes in. We’ll be back in Elbow by noon, but right now … For your comfort and safety, we’re bunking here.” The women groan but you …

“The fuck we are.”

“Where it’s warm and safe.”

Ebersole. “We’re not paying for
safe
.”

I know what you want. You stink of it. “Bathrooms and vending machines down the hall to your left, soft drinks, Slim Jims and Pocky Sticks so you won’t starve. Arnold’s always here by eight. You’ll get private tour.”

The noise you make is ugly
,
ugly.

“ … the fuck out of here.”

Oh hell, I go, “I know you’re sick of waiting, but trust me, it’s worth waiting for
.”
Your minds go running along ahead to the dirty place. There are things I could tell you about Troop 13, but you don’t like me any more than I like you, so why should I? As the Evanescent tour driver, I am forced to add, “People, it’s not safe out there!”

But you’re all stampeding, threatening legal action or worse.

OK
, in situations like this, the foyer is the safest place to sleep, but no way am I bedding down with you ignorant, flatulent, loud-mouthed fools. You want out?
OK
, you asked for it.

You’ll bitch when I fill your pockets with food from the machines and frogmarch you down the steep staircase to the ledge, but the bus is almost as safe as the Waiting Room, so get used to it. See, I don’t mind your women or the kids but I can’t stand another minute of you, and don’t go thinking I don’t have the power. You backed off when I pulled my gun? Now the Evanescent Taser shows its teeth. You’ll let me shovel you back onto the bus and lock you in for the night, which I am obligated to do, because even though you signed off on the liability clause before you came on this tour and I don’t like you, I am responsible, so sleep safe and fuck you.