Dying for Chocolate

“Let’s eat,” said Brian Harrington. It was the first time he had spoken since the outing had begun, but I thanked him for the magic words.

We recrossed the creek and marched in silence back to our picnic tables. I opened the van and took everything out of the coolers. No one volunteered to help. Once the adults got going on the chardonnay, however, the mood started to lift. While I was setting out the stuffed croissants, the general disappeared behind a rock outcropping with some of his equipment.

He strode back to the table without telling us what he was up to, and we all enjoyed a pleasant lunch. After the chocolate sour cream cupcakes were reduced to a platter of crumbs, General Bo got to his feet.

He cleared his throat. “I want to demonstrate something to you all.”

Adele gave him a fearful look. Apparently, he had not cleared his plans with her.

“Now don’t worry,” he said to mollify us. “I just want to demonstrate to you how a terrorist can detonate a briefcase from a thousand feet.”

He pointed. Obediently, we all turned our attention to the rock outcropping. A brown briefcase perched on the humps of gray. I scuttled around to the edge of the picnic bench where Arch sat and put my arm across his shoulder.

“My Lord,” murmured Weezie.

“The environment will not respond well. . .” said Elizabeth Miller.

“Bo. Stop this immediately,” said Adele in a low hiss. She glared at him, her mouth set.

“You can’t do this,” said the zoo-lady. “You’ll upset every—”

But her words were swallowed in the explosion.

When I opened my eyes, I checked to make sure Arch was all right. He was fine, and he was gazing up in admiration at an exultant General Bo.

Arch said, “That guy is so cool.”

18.

We packed up to go home, a human pastiche of solemn and joyful silence. Since it had started to rain right after the explosion, I was one of the happy ones. General Farquhar’s experiment had awakened the thunder to its job. Flashes of lightning, celestial booms, and fat cold raindrops sent us all scattering toward the vehicles. No more birding! My relief was inexpressible.

General Bo, Arch, and Brian Harrington were quietly exultant as they heaved baskets onto the van shelves. The general and Arch were flushed with excitement about the success of the briefcase-detonation. I was reminded of the silent incredulity of the fans when the Broncos pull one out in the fourth quarter.

And then there was Brian Harrington. He was smiling to himself. This was a little harder to figure. Then I remembered. Flicker Ridge belonged to Weezie—or it had until they got married. Their very public exchange of wedding gifts had been trumpeted in that paragon of journalistic reliability, the Mountain Journal: He had given her a house in Vail; she had deeded him the ridge. Now Brian had slated the land for development, and had mysteriously managed—at least according to the Mountain Journal—to obtain preliminary approval from the county planning commission for planned unit development. An outing emphasizing Flicker Ridge’s ecology, soon to be disrupted by development, would make him look bad. At least, that was my guess for his jolly demeanor. On the other hand, maybe he had made a date with the zoo-lady.

Adele, Weezie, Elizabeth, and the zoo-lady scooped up silverware and gathered up defiant, wind-whipped tablecloths. The women were sullen and preoccupied. The notion of studying our feathered friends obviously had enthralled them. I tried to swallow my grin but could not.

When the advance guard of our convoy returned to Sam Snead Lane, a white VW Rabbit I did not recognize was parked outside the gate of the Farquhars’ driveway. General Bo, Adele, and Julian had dropped off the zoo-lady at the bus stop, and would be coming along soon. As long as it wasn’t The Jerk’s car, I felt safe going into the house alone. But no need to worry: the Farquhars’ Range Rover chugged up alongside the Rabbit as I was entering the gate code. Windows were lowered; heated discussion followed. It was Sissy.

Eventually we all ground up the Farquhars’ driveway. Once inside the garage I busied myself emptying the picnic debris. Whatever the latest conflict was, I didn’t want any part of it. Relationships were like small picnics, I decided as I emptied out croissant crumbs and strings of endive. You always thought they were going to be so great—look at those happy people in ads, relating and picnicking!—but were so inevitably disappointed. Whoever said, Life is no picnic, obviously had never been on one.