Fun in the Yellow Pages. Bobbi MD Groover
answered his dad. "I told you it would be rustic."
Don’t you mean desolate?
In the distance he could see a small sign, and he strained to read it. It said: WELCOME TO BROOKWOOD, POP. 204.
"We're here," said his mother excitedly. She started to reorganize the snacks they hadn't finished during the trip.
"Ma, the sign said this town has a population of two hundred and four people. We have more kids than that at my school!"
"That's what he meant by a small country town. Uncle Sam said around here everyone knows everyone else. Now help me look for his road. He said it's about three miles outside town," replied Dad. He sounded tired and irritated. Pierson knew better than to keep complaining.
They soon passed another small sign saying: LEAVING BROOKWOOD. HAVE A NICE DAY. Pierson clamped his lips shut to keep himself from uttering any comment Instead he concentrated on helping to find his uncle's road.
"There!" his mother shouted. He glanced where she pointed and saw a tall, H-shaped wooden frame near a gravel road. A large brass bell hung in the top part of the H. Across the middle of the frame, HOLIDAY HILL FARM shone brightly in bold red letters.
"All visitors staying at Holiday Hill kindly proceed to the left," said his dad, imitating a tour guide.
"Some holiday!" Pierson mumbled quietly. He was failing miserably at keeping his mouth shut.
The van shook and bumped up the narrow gravel road. Behind them thick dust swirled up in a cloud, sure to coat the leaves of the many trees with a fine film of white.
"Dad, how far is the house from the main road?" He wanted to know how far he would be from fellow human beings.
"I think it's about a half mile."
Pierson did a few quick calculations and realized he would have to jog three and a half miles to find civilization. Impatiently waiting for a break in the trees, he wondered if any famous long-distance runners had started their careers this way.
His mother was the first to spot the cabin. "It needs a little work—no, lots of work and plenty of flowers—but I think it's dreamy."
"And my worst nightmare," whined Pierson, as his dad stopped the van to view the scene before them.
In the clearing stood a small, deserted log cabin–a real log cabin. The interlocking logs reminded Pierson of the log kits he had enjoyed when he was younger. The windows were small and had wooden shutters, some badly in need of repair. Standing like a sentry, the chimney contained layers of round multicolored river rocks. A post and rail fence meandered from the cabin to the fields, but there were no flowers, no bushes, no landscaping.
On one side of the cabin lay a pile of wood, stacked neatly, probably waiting to be carried inside for a fire. On the other side stood an old-fashioned water pump; a wooden bucket hung from the nozzle. Farther away from the cabin were smaller, unidentifiable structures.
Dad broke the heavy silence. "Come on, Pierce. It's not that bad."
"Get real, Dad. I know you said Uncle Sam is an unusual sort of guy, but even Daniel Boone wouldn't live in a place like this."
"I think this is going to be an adventure we'll talk about for years to come," stated his mother.
"At least that's something we all can agree on," said Pierson and his father in unison. They slapped a high-five and grinned.
The gravel road crunched. Driving up behind them were Aunt Maggie and Will.
"What perfect timing," said Dad. The caravan moved towards the cabin.
Trying to catch a glimpse of Will, Pierson stared out the back. Through the window, he could see that Will's face wore the same scowl he'd had the last time they had met. Pierson wondered if it had been put there surgically. How could anyone wear the same expression for so long?
Dad had barely stopped the van when Mom jumped out, running to greet her sister and nephew. As she did, a bag of pumpkin seeds splashed and sprinkled over the console and front seats.
"What a mess," exclaimed Dad. He put one foot out the door to brush the seeds onto the driveway. However, as his other foot came off the brake, the van moved forward and knocked him off balance. The van coasted toward the cabin, picking up speed. Dad was running full steam, trying to pull himself into the seat and apply the brake. Pierson scrambled over the luggage, hoping to dive bomb into the front seat. With a hefty grunt and a burst of speed Dad jumped forward, landed on the seat and slammed the pedal. The jolt threw Pierson and the dog to the floor.
"Good save, Dad," yelled Pierson as he scrambled out of the van.
"Are you okay?" screamed both sisters at once.
"I’m all right." Dad was puffing hard yet shook off their concern. "But do me a favor and put those seeds in the glove compartment. I don't want them falling every time you get out of the car." He sounded irritated, although it was he who hadn't shifted the van into PARK.
"I thought you had bad knees, Uncle Dawson," said Will. His voice had acquired a manly deepness.
Surprised Will had offered a comment, everyone turned to him.
"In an emergency one tends to forget things like that, Will. But I'll bet I'm going to feel it tomorrow," Dad replied, chuckling. He flexed each leg several times.
Will spun away and leaned against their car as though embarrassed he had spoken. Pierson could now study him without being accused of staring. His coal black hair was straight and thick. Although long and layered, it fell neatly around his head. Will had grown since their last meeting. He was at least a foot taller than Pierson. Under the snug tee shirt, his rigid back was muscled within a well-proportioned physique. Obviously getting into fights was good for body-building.
As if he could feel Pierson gazing at his back, Will suddenly turned. There was tension in the clover green eyes that narrowed to return the stare; a severe crease etched the high forehead. Pierson felt it was a challenge of sorts. Will had pitched the ball, and Pierson knew the next move was up to him. He decided to bunt.
"Well, here we are!" he said, putting his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. He added a toothy grin to complete the picture.
Seemingly disarmed for the moment, Will made a disgusted click with his tongue, pushed past them and headed for the cabin. Aunt Maggie, wringing her hands, cast a pleading glance at her sister and followed him. With the dog leaping and nipping at her heels, Mom took two packages from the van and walked through the doorway.
Dad had the queer smirk on his face he always got when he seemed amused by something he shouldn't be. He winked at Pierson and shook his head. "Let's go inside and see what other surprises are in store for us!"
CHAPTER THREE
"What I did on my summer vacation," recited Pierson to himself, preparing to face the first night of exile. "Against my will I existed in a prison-like cabin, performing hard labor side by side with a fellow inmate who hated me. Adding to my misery was slow starvation. This happened because the guard, alias my mother, could not operate a cast iron stove."
That should be good for an A for originality, thought Pierson, providing I live long enough to write it!
He was hiding out, dreading going up to the loft, the soon-to-be hostile environment he had to share with Will. As primitive as it first appeared, he had to admit the cabin did have a certain coziness. It had only one bedroom and one bathroom, both located off the main room. His parents were lucky; they claimed the bedroom before Pierson found it.
The main room was an ‘L’ shape, part being the kitchen area, part the living area. The loft sported a single window. One reached it by a wooden ladder from the main floor. It housed two platforms, each with a thin mattress. Pierson had gingerly tested his mattress, and it had crunched. He was sure the stuff inside was corn stalks and straw. Will had simply grunted, thrown his duffel bag underneath his bed and flopped down facing the wall. Aunt Maggie had pleaded to sleep