TIM’S DIARY 2:

8/6/1975:

Having a hard time convincing Terry that the pond isn’t filled with alien slime. “It just doesn’t smell right.” Your face doesn’t smell right, T! It’s probably just sanitizing stuff. After all, what would be the point of remaking the whole thing if it immediately got filled with mosquitoes and other nasty insect stuff? Also also, the stench will keep the big bad wolf away. The three pigs should have slathered themselves in soap, I think. The wolf’d have never gotten to them that way.

I can feel it pawing around in the woods. Mr. Dreyfuss does too, but people think I’m crazy if I tell them that my very old turtle can tell there is some predator sniffing around our backyard. Jeez, how do you think he got to such an esteemed old age? You don’t become the don of the turtle mafia without picking up a few tricks. Like sniffing out gun-molls. By the way, the one woman Lauren glared at at the park? Total mafia material. Sister dearest was awfully quiet when she popped up. So, so quiet.

She told me it was some manager from CL&M who came to their school to talk about drugs and not doing them. Pish! I did plenty of drugs when I was young younger and now look at me! I don’t even need crutches to walk anymore, or an exo. Plus Terry’s dad smoked all sort of interesting stuff back when he was overseas, and both him and Terry seem like fine people to me.

Though Terry has been a bit jumpy since the big bad wolf started its prowl. He’s wondering whether it’ll try its luck with his house. I told him to fear not! Not only he’s got a great fence, it’s also a metal one. Don’t you know how the story goes? Hay, then wood, then metal. It’ll huff and puff, but not against your fence. I wouldn’t worry about the wolf as much as about the sheep. Or goat. Lauren si far more of a goat than a sheep. Stubborn. Bleats! Loves cheese. Knows how to climb really well. A sad, sad nanny-goat to be, sans her kids. She doesn’t tell me, but I can see in the way she frowns that her friends will be dearly missed. Today she’s going to visit Mrs Hopkins in the hospital. One last train ride together! Or bus. Like the one Billy rode in. He says it’s one of the first automated ones, but they still got a driver in case the machine goes on the fritz. Terry doesn’t trust it, of course. His da says that when machines fail, it’s men who pay the price. I don’t know, I don’t think it is going to run any granny over anytime soon. Heck, I am pretty sure Mrs. Dartmouth could outrun the thing. Sooo slow.

Should have Mr. Dreyfuss race it! See who gets to my house first.

9/6/1975:

Today the big bad wolf roamed closer to home. I think it's getting desperate. There was a smell like thrown-up stuff around the backtrails, Mr Dreyfuss picking it up all swift-like, making his rumbling battlecry. What a brave forest defender he is! But is he good enough to save our cables from being eaten? I doubt it. Plus, what kind of stupid animal eats copper? That's how you end up as a mutant, Terry says. I 100% agree. And yet, when I poked my head outta window, I saw that the big bad wolf had been pawing at the buried cabling under the hillside, baring some of it. Poor dumb thing. No opposable thumbs, nu-uh. Minus.

When I told Lauren, she was all like “Are you sure it's not the mud” and “Timmy, maybe it was just a badger.” Sister, do you hear yourself talking? So when Billy came around I asked him about cameras. Should be easy enough!

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9/6/1975:

It wasn’t a badger. So much for Lauren scoring. I have sent the picture to Brad.

10/6.

A+. Tara wisely kept mum about it, for now. It's a victory that tastes like ash, though. “Definitively not a badger”, Brad had told me. Jeez, thanks. I could tell. As far as telling goes, though, it seems that Mrs. Dartmouth was right.

The picture Tim has taken shows a morass of brown fur, a roly poly blotch going uphill. Too big to be a coyote, obviously. Timothy had a steady aim, so it was the beast itself that was hauling up pretty fast. The rangers came by during the evening, but I could tell the footprints were vaguely bear-like.

“I don't really want to think about this” is my main conclusion, today. So was Dad's. The second, though, was that Timmy seems to have a killer eye when it comes to photography. You know, I got the feeling I just found the right distraction for him.

12/06.

Brad's starting off with a bang. He told me they were going to do a mixed firewatch/forest census. One week on the trails. The unspoken assumption was that the ranger crews would find the trespassing bear as they combed through some of the old posts. The wind's finally picking up, and things are getting considerably dryer. Maybe it's the whole thing with the dog-eater souring his mood, maybe it's this weather reminding him, but Dad has been making some really awful jokes about the fires of 47'.

Meanwhile, I've been trying to “tie things up” those last three days, so to speak. Picking up homework, making sure to get a list of recommended reads for the summer, and finally spending time with Hannah and Janet. We went to McDonalds yesterday, Janet telling us about her plans in Miami as we had a celebratory and trashy launch. “There is a bookstore ran by Cubans a few blocks from my aunt's house”, were her opening words. Oh-la-la. Looking for dissenting opinions and licentious literature, are we? Hannah frowned but made no comment. As far as I was concerned right there and then, all the books I'd want to read are either within grasp, or one short trip to Carl's house. But Janet? She's always had more urbane tastes. From what she told us over burgers and fries, her ideal catch would be some literature from Mexico. She was hoping to learn Spanish, interestingly enough.

Hannah herself was instead concerned more with getting some free time, rather than organizing things. There were baptysms, there were graduations and get-togethers to attend. She was blunt about it: She'd probably end up phoning only a few times a week. Told her not to worry, my sweetheart. I can do without your voice for a while, especially after all the giggling you did with Tara. Sometimes? Sometimes you're far too trusting for your own good, H.

At the end of the day, I felt like writing down some memories, some thoughts spurred on by this. Gosh, it's just au revoir, not farewell, but still. Feels right.

A Portrait Of The Three Of Us:

Mrs Maupert was many things. Caring, loud and proud of her spinster status. Very good at preparing you for elementary school. That was before the malady. We don't speak much of her in the aftermath, especially since there has been less and less of her with every passing year. One of her last great intuitions was to pair me up with Hannah. I knew her in that vague dreamy way kids seem to interpret the world, all symbolic. We had been on playdates thanks to our mothers' shared workspace, but we'd never been paired up.

In hindsight, I think Maupert chose me because she knew my mother. She knew she was no Aunt Francis, assuming the latter'd even started showing that side of her at the time. So, she rightly assumed I'd not make any comments about Hannah's skin. Which is to be fair, it was a shade lighter than her father's. I did love her hair, always have, though. Blonde curls.

I didn't meet Janet 'till middle school. By then, my friendship with Hannah had been cemented through thick and thin, through endless nights home alone with Francis and Carl, waiting for mom and dad and Timmy to come back from the hospital, never quite knowing when. And as the divorce flared up, and Francis let herself- And us- Down, I started spending more time at her home as well. We used to swing by the park a lot. Intrepid tree-climbers, the two of us. Though, in my case, my successes seemed to have been achieved out of spite rather than any sort of ability or physical provess. I am more of a hiking sort of girl. Endurance. Now, Hannah? She just had to reach up.

She was tall for a kid, and now she's tall for a woman. But she's graceful, undeniably so. The cheerleading team'd love to have her, but she seems committed to home economy. Not a prude, never was, but she's got her reserved attitude. So does Janet, but in her case I think it's more this sort of soft shell she has. Like a cloud, a haze through which she presents herself. Her parents wanted her socialized, and it just so happened the two of us had gained a reputation for not being judgemental little brats. I mean, almost everyone came across as an angel compared to the likes of Brian and Tara back then. Thanks God they have considerably chilled down.

Speaking of Tara, though...

The First Time I Bickered With Tara.

I don't even know why. I just remember that it was a summer like the one coming. Mom was in the hospital with Timmy, and I must have been, I think eight? Or seven, and dad had wisely decided that what I certainly needed to distract me from the lack of Hannah and Hannah-related playdates around was to bring me over to one of Pastor Nick's socials. In theory, it was a great idea. In execution? It actually mostly worked out. Up until Tara strode into the parish with her new summer dress. I'd been talking to a few family friends and their kids up then, Tara, being the darling angel she is, decided that the best way to get my attention was to loudly ask who the girl with the spniach hair was. Nevermind that it wasn't the first time we'd met, not by a long shot. Nevermind that I had spent more than a hour being fussed on by Aunt Francis, sitting still as she tried to reel in my hair's natural sloppiness. Nevermind all of that. Spinach? What were you, eight? I mean, yes, she was. We were. But still.

That alone would have been what Mrs. Hopkins'd call “Casus belli”, but an indulgent smile from a much happier Aunt Francis was enough to placate me. Don't remember what comeback I was going to use, but I am sure it was going to be fire. Francis wisely deducted that a Tara with her mouth full is a silent Tara, so she absconded to get some refreshments. Unfortunately, she had to pick up some both Tara and I seemed to be fond off. I think something with bratwurst? Which meant that, obviously, I was the piggy, despite sweet little Miss Stuff-Face having eaten half of them. Which she loudly denied, calling me a liar. And a dumb.

So I bit her.

Well, actually, first I tried to slap her. But she caught the slap. So young Lauren decided that, against all logic and reason, the right maneuver was going to go ahead and try to eat a chunk off Tara. Aunt Francis managed to pry me off before I could tear anything off her shoulder, but by then my dad'd been alerted. Dad, who had been reminescing and planning a hike with Nick and Brad's own father.

I am not exactly proud of all of this, or at least present-me isn't. But past me? Apparently she thought it was very worth it. Worth three weeks without TV alongside heapings of quite worry from all parties involved. But as far as I know, beyond calling me “David's little wendigo”, Pastor Nick didn't hold any grudge. Kids will be kids, after all.

As far as Tara goes, I think she still has a hint of a scar there. She doesn't like to talk about it as much as she does with that cut she got from hiking up the Shaman Trail.