“What if I don’t want to be Dorothy? Dorothy’s a woos.”
“That leaves Toto,” Billie said.
“A dog. Thanks a heap, Mother. If we’re gonna sing the damn song, let’s just get on with it, okay? You guys can pretend to be whoever you want, just include me out.”
“Party pooper,” Billie said.
“You and the horse you rode in on.”
“Cowardly Lions don’t ride horses,” I pointed out.
Connie gave me a narrow look, then smiled. “And doughnut holes don’t fly,” she said, “but maybe you can take a leap at one, anyway.”
“Let’s sing,” Billie said.
Without any more discussion, we started in on “The Wizard of Oz.”
Turned out, none of us knew the words very well. We made an energetic botch of the song, then quit when we reached the flat, slanting rock just below the lagoon.
This time, nobody went sneaking up the rock to take a look around. Connie leading the way, the three of us climbed its face. We stood at the top in full view of anyone who might be watching.
We saw nobody.
“Now what?” Connie whispered.
“Kimberly was planning to come in from the rear,” Billie said. “She’ll probably be over on the other side.”
“Somewhere upstream,” I added.
“So I guess we swim across,” Billie said.
“Not me,” I said. “I can’t swim anywhere with this ax.”
“Leave it here?” Billie asked.
“Somebody might swipe it. Besides, what if we need it?”
“Guess you’re right,” she said. “Maybe we’d better walk around to the other side.”
I expected Connie to say, “Be my guest,” then dive in and swim across. I wouldn’t have blamed her, either. I wanted to dive in. The water looked wonderful. Also, it would’ve been very soothing on our mosquito bites.
Connie surprised me, saying, “I’ll go first.” Then she turned to the left and began to make her way along the shoreline. Billie followed her, and I took up the rear.
It wasn’t easy going. A lot of climbing. A lot of ducking under branches. A lot of squeezing through tight places. A lot of tricky footwork, crossing ledges and steep slopes and deadfalls. A lot of huffing and sweating.
I felt responsible. After a while, I said, “Are you two sure you wouldn’t rather go on and swim across? I can meet you on the other side.”
“This is the last place we oughta start splitting up,” Billie said.
“You got a death wish?” Connie asked me.
“I just feel bad about making you do this.”
“You’re doing us the favor,” Billie said. “Hell, you’re hauling around our major piece of weaponry.”
She was right about that.
And very sweet to point it out.
They both seemed to accept this rough haul as an unavoidable part of our mission to hook up with Kimberly, and didn’t blame me.
We stayed as close as possible to the water. That way, we had a good view of the lagoon and most of the opposite shore, including the waterfall. We kept our eyes open for Kimberly. And we watched for any signs of Wesley or Thelma.
Being at the rear, I watched our backs.
I couldn’t help, from time to time, also watching the backs of Billie and Connie.
Billie’s close-cropped hair, dripping with sweat, clung to her head in dark ringlets. Her back, richly dark from the sun (sunblock only goes so far), gleamed as if she’d been dipped in melted butter. Her back was crossed by the single rope of her tomahawk sling, and by the three coils of the long rope. The tomahawk bounced and swayed against her right hip as she walked. The seat of her black bikini pants was packed with her full, firm buttocks. I remember thinking, as I followed her, how I would’ve loved to see her wearing a thong like Connie’s.
As for Connie, her short, blond hair looked almost exactly like her mother’s. But that’s where the resemblances stopped. She didn’t have the broad shoulders, the wide back, or the impressive hips and rump. From behind, she looked like skin and bones while her mother looked like flesh and blood.
She wore the towel-vest, which covered most of her back. Below the rear of the vest, she was naked except for a waistband and a strip of orange fabric that descended (and very nearly vanished) between her buttocks. Her cheeks were brown and shiny, but had a few red bumps from the mosquitoes.
Both women were wonderful to watch.
For about an hour, I worked my way along behind them, struggling with the weight of the ax, keeping an eye out for trouble, and for Kimberly, and savoring my views of Billie and Connie.
I’m glad that I didn’t try to be a perfect gentleman and avoid looking at them; pretty soon they would be gone and I might never have another chance to see them.
I didn’t know that at the time.
I only knew that we were together on a mission, that I could admire them from behind to my heart’s content, that I loved them both, and that this was one of those few, special times I would always look back on with fondness and sorrow.
The great times are often that way.
In the middle of everything, you suddenly realize that you’re having a perfect, golden experience. And you realize how few they are. And how this one is bound to end too soon. You know that it will always be a wonderful memory, that the loss of it will give you a soft ache in the heart.
This was one of those times.
It had begun, I realize now, with “Waltzing Matilda.”
It ended upstream, in the rocks beyond the lagoon, at the edge of the chasm.
By the time we reached the other side of the lagoon, we were drenched with sweat and gasping for breath. Instead of pausing to rest, however, we climbed the rocks alongside the waterfall.
We no sooner reached the top than Kimberly shouted, “Over here!”
We spotted her standing on a boulder by the side of the stream, waving her arms back and forth. She was uphill from us, about a hundred feet away. Her spear leaned against the boulder, close enough for her to crouch and grab in case of an emergency. But if she fell on it…
The idea made me grimace.
While we approached her, she climbed down.
Didn’t fall and get skewered.
Scooted on her rump down the face of the rock, then jumped to the ground.
“Was that you guys singing?” she asked.
“Who else would it be?” Connie said.
She smiled. “I couldn’t believe my ears. You’re coming to my rescue belting out songs?”
“You obviously didn’t require rescuing,” Billie said.
“It’s the thought that counts.”
“We would’ve sung ‘The Gary Owen,’ I told her, “but I don’t know the words.”
“The Gary what?” Connie asked.
Kimberly wrinkled her nose. “Is that the Seventh Cavalry song?” she asked.
“Right.” I hummed a few bars.
Billie grinned. She said, “Ah, John Wayne.”
“George Armstrong Custer,” I said.
“That would’ve been choice,” Kimberly said.
“You being part Sioux, and all…”
“Anyway, I’m glad you came.”
“We thought you might be able to use some help,” Billie told her. “Even if you didn’t want us getting in your way.”
