the night, Lexi,” offered Ellen, and Lexi accepted. “You guys are all so weird,” Lexi said, and slid onto the thickly painted brown bench next to Corrie. “I totally didn’t think I’d enjoy this place at all.” “Oh, insects, snakes, hideous weather, lousy food, weird people, maybe some bears—you’ve got it all here,” I joked. Across the picnic table, Corrie smiled. “But really,” Lexi said, grinning, “I don’t know how I’m going to tell my friends about this. They just—I mean, no one’s really going to believe I enjoyed this.” “Here’s how I put it,” said Ellen. “There’s a bunch of crazy Catholic families that all go out year after year to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the summer, and it’s hot and miserable and we don’t have electricity or AC or cell service, and in the evenings there’s a mass and a bonfire and the adults get together and drink and get smashed while the teens all talk and chill out, and nobody would have it any other way.” “Well-put,” I said sagely. “My friends still think I’m crazy,” Ellen said. “And I don’t even mention the bike ride people!” “And you get the feeling that maybe no one understands us,” said Lexi, “But when you’ve gotten into it, then it all makes sense. And even though it’s my first time here, I get that now.” Corrie put her leg back under the table and set the Coke back down and spoke. “It’s a funny sort of family, and mostly we only see each other for a week every year, but that’s the beauty of it, I guess. We just all see each other a year older every time, but there’s a sense of stability. At least in my family, it kinda anchors the rest of the year, and that’s a good thing.” Corrie seemed relieved, like she’d had those words sitting on her mind for a while.
70
If I’d been closer (and maybe a little more comfortable), I would have given her a sympathetic hug right then. “I like that, Corrie,” said Ellen. “It just wouldn’t be right without the people. And, like, Leon, I’ve known you since we were seven, and the same with you, Corrie.” “I guess it’s weird that I don’t get to have the same experience, exactly,” said Lexi. “We’re practically adults now, and I’m a firstyear here.” “But you might just be coming here the rest of your life, who knows? If you keep coming with your family even in college, and then when you have kids, and we’ll still be here as well,” said Ellen, “It would be almost the same.” She looked at Corrie and me hopefully. “What do you guys think?” “Oh yeah,” I said, and smiled. “I don’t know how I’d get through a year without this place. I can just say what’s on my mind and completely be myself for a week.” I gave Corrie an encouraging smile. “How about you?” Corrie waited before answering. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’d love to come here for the rest of my life, but ahead there’s jobs and college orientations and schedule conflicts and kids and family illnesses... and I’m worried we might—I might, you might—just lose the kind of desire to keep coming back. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot.” She wasn’t dramatic, but she had a kind of melancholy I’d never seen in her before. “And that would be sad,” said Lexi, propping her head up with an arm set on the table. “I don’t want it to end like that.” I didn’t either, and Corrie had said what I’d been trying to avoid thinking about— that there would be no more weeks of us together, and no more hope for me to work out what exactly were the feelings I had for Corrie, whom I had always loved as a friend. The four of us talked long into the cicada-chorus night.