Wolf Stuff 3

We sat in the car and watched the man with the hippie hair walk by. We watched him in silence. He climbed into the passenger seat of a waiting pickup truck.

"What was that?" L said. I shrugged. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or give up. I still hadn't recovered my language skills, and I was aggravated that our left turns were getting us nowhere. It was still somewhat early in the day. If we could just find the damn place, then we could set up camp and relax for a while. I was desperate to relax. I was desperate.

I pulled the car back into traffic and made my way to the place where we were supposed to turn left. "What if we didn't go left?" L asked as we approached the intersection.

"You mean, what if the directions were wrong?" I asked. By then, I couldn't remember where we even got the directions.

"Yes. What if we just went straight?"

I aimed the car straight. About a mile ahead, we could see a giant sign for the White Birch. It boasted a big white arrow directing us to turn right.

And then there it was: the motel of my adolescent imagination. I'd made it up in my mind and when presented with the real thing, I wasn't disappointed. It was rustic, but clean. I pulled up in front of the office.

"I'll go pay for a camping space," I said. L stood outside the car and smoked a cigarette. I took a deep breath. I had no idea what or whom to expect.

The woman behind the counter was friendly. "What can I do for you?" she asked. I mentioned that we wanted to camp. She told me the prices. I told her we'd only be there one night. We chit-chatted and I handed her the cash. I was about to chicken out. But, I heard a pause in the conversation and I knew it was my chance. I couldn't ask her if she was Roger's second wife, that seemed too personal and too forward. Plus, I wasn't sure I wanted her to know who I was.

"Are you the owner?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. She went about her business, pulling together my paperwork.

"How long have you owned the place?" I asked.

"Oh, my husband and I bought it from the previous owner a few years ago," she answered.

I smiled. She wasn't Roger's second wife. The timeline didn't work. But she probably bought it from Roger's second wife.

"Why, honey?" she asked.

"Oh," I said. I didn't know how to answer her. "My dad's friend owned this place for awhile."

"From Ohio?" she said.

I felt my face go numb. I showed up without a plan. I was too scared to make a plan. I didn't ask my parents about to whom Roger left the place or if his second wife had stuck around after his suicide. I didn't know whether to ask the new owner, "Yeah. Where did the guy commit suicide?" I never looked up a newspaper article about it and I never read an obituary. I was just a girl on a road trip, headed back  to Ohio, leaving a little life in Beverly Hills to make a bigger life for herself in the foothills of Appalachia. I felt very young, then, as I stood in front of this stranger and said, "Yeah. From Ohio."

She smiled and handed me my receipt and a copy of the campground rules. I smiled back, took the papers, and spun left on my heel. L was leaning agains the car.

"Well?" she asked.

"She doesn't know Roger," I said. I was shaking my head. I didn't want to answer questions or talk about it. I wanted to pitch the tent. And I wanted a drink.

We found a spot between two other tents and bent the poles and inserted them into the openings and created the tent structure in no time. It sat upright. It looked like the other tents. We went back to the car to get all the blankets, then turned around to watch the tent tumble away. It rolled and rolled and wanted to jump over the little summit and down into the creek nearby. L ran after it while I stood and watched with all the linens in my arms.

"What. The. Hell." I said under my breath. But, even under my breath was loud enough for the man across the little paved path to hear me.

"You didn't anchor it down. You've got to nail it into the Earth," he said. He went into his camper and came out with a hammer and some ties. L placed the tent back in the spot we'd originally chose, and the man kindly secured our tent in place.

"There you go," he said. His dog barked from the open camper door. We all walked back to the little paved path.

"That there's Buzz," the man said, pointing at the dog.

"Hi, Buzz," L and I waved at the dog.

The man walked over and picked the dog up. I pulled my tiny digital camera from the glove box. The man hugged Buzz close to his face. Buzz was an overweight dachshund. He seemed practiced at having his picture taken.