"Thought she was asleep," I said.
"Well. Nothing we can do about it now."
"Let's go on back to the fire," Billie suggested.
So we turned our backs to the jungle. We walked side by side, me with the ax on my shoulder, all of us battered (me the only one bloody). We must've been a sight to see -- if anyone was watching.
Charlie's Angels and the Tin Woodsman.
All messed up and nowhere to go.
Or whatever.
I'm starting to lose it. I've been writing for hours, trying to get down all of last night's events in this journal. My hand is turning into a claw -- my mind into mush. Anyway, I've got to finish about last night.
Before something else happens.
If I let the journal fall behind, I might have real trouble catching up.
On second thoughts, I'm going to take a break.
Hello, I'm back. Took a nice swim, then sat around with the gals for a while.
Maybe it was a mistake, but I finally admitted that I'm keeping a journal. I'd been telling everyone, before, that I
was working on a series of short stories. But it was finally time to trust them with the truth. I mean, there's only three of them, now.
I wanted them to know about it. To know I'm not just fooling around while I'm sitting by myself for hours. To know there's a record of our ordeal being kept. (Maybe it'll be important for them to know that, at some point. Especially if something happens to me. Yuck. Made me feel squeamish, writing that little line.) We had quite a long talk about the journal. They wanted to know what I've written about them (which made me sweat big-time), but I explained that I wouldn't be able to write truthfully if I had to worry about pleasing an audience. Finally, they promised to respect my privacy and make no attempts to sneak a peek.
They'd better stick to their promises, or there will be some mighty embarrassed and angry people on this beach. (I couldn't stand to face any of these gals, knowing they're aware of certain things I've written about them.) Shit. They gave their word. If they read this stuff, they deserve what they get.
Maybe I shouldn't have told them.
Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
Anyway, now that I've rested and shot off my mouth to the ladies, I'm ready to knock out the conclusion of last night's events.
I left off when we were on our way back to the camping area.
Okay.
We got into the firelight, and the gals suddenly noticed my wounds. They seemed pretty concerned -- even Connie. In fact, she's the one who insisted on tending to me. She told her mother and Kimberly that they should try to get some sleep. She would fix me up, then she and I would stand watch for the next few hours.
I urged them to go along with it. I mean, they both seemed worn out and hurting.
While Billie and Kimberly settled into their sleeping places, Connie grabbed a couple of rags. She went to the stream, dipped them in, and came over to where I was sitting by the fire. She made me turn so the firelight would shine on the wounded side of my face -- the right. Then she knelt in front of me.
The firelight lit up the swollen left side of her jaw.
Where I'd punched her.
"I'm sorry about that," I told her. "It wasn't supposed to connect."
"Wasn't, huh?"
"I swear."
She started dabbing at the raw trench that Thelma's rock had torn in my face and ear. She was gentle about it, but every touch ignited pain. "I had it coming," she said. "I got in my shots, you got in yours."
"It was an accident."
"Sure."
"I never would've hit you on purpose."
She smirked. "If you say so."
"It's the truth."
"What'd Thelma get you with, anyway? It sure fucked up your face."
"A rock."
"Look at this." She pulled back the rag and showed it to me. It was red with my blood. The other cloth was still clean. She used it to mop off the blood that had run down my face and neck and right shoulder and arm. Then she wrung out both the rags, squeezing and twisting them. Bloody water spilled onto the sand between us.
She scowled at my lower wound.
Thelma's broken spear had gouged me just above my belly button. The hole wasn't deep, but it had bled a lot. The front of my swimming trunks was soaked, and trickles had even made their way down my thighs.
Connie shook her head. "We'd better just go over to the stream."
She took the rags with her. I carried the ax.
Gaining possession of the ax was the best thing to come out of our disastrous ambush. Next to a gun, you couldn't ask for a better weapon. Now it was ours, not Wesley's. I planned to keep it close by.
Connie led the way to the stream. We stepped down its shallow, sandy bank and waded in. The water felt great -- slightly cooler than the night air.
The stream is basically so narrow that, during most of its course from the jungle to the inlet, you can jump across it without much trouble. It is also fairly shallow. Ankle-deep in many places, knee-deep in a few.
Connie and I entered one of the deeper areas. She faced me. We were out of range of the firelight. "You can put down the ax," she said.
I swung it underhand, and let go. The heavy, steel head thumped onto dry sand near the shore. The haft dropped toward me, and splashed into the stream where it would be easy to grab in case of an emergency.
Crouching in front of me, Connie rinsed the bloody rags. She stayed down. After draping one of the cloths over her knee, she reached up with the other and began to wash my wound. To hold herself steady, she clutched the waist of my trunks with her left hand, over near my hip.
I couldn't help but feel the backs of her fingers in there.
Couldn't help noticing how she'd tugged my trunks down a good inch -- just by virtue of hanging onto them.
Not to mention, her face was straight in front.of my groin.
I tried not to let these things affect me.
They affected me quickly and obviously.
"Not again," she said when my trunks started sticking out.
"Sorry," I told her.
She stopped patting the wet cloth against my wound. She lowered that hand, but the other stayed. "Don't apologize, make it go away."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. I'm trying to help you, and here you've got your thing in my face."
"I don't have a lot of control over it. You know? It just . . . responds. To things like you."
"Things like me."
"Yeah, you. The way you look. Your hand there. The water. It all . . . adds up."
"So then, it's my fault?"
I smiled. "Pretty much."
"I'm supposed to be flattered, or something?"
"Maybe," I said.
She looked up at me and didn't speak for a few seconds. Then she said, "You had one when we were fighting, too."
"Yeah. When I was on top of you."
She dipped the rag in the stream, then lifted it and began mopping the blood off the area between my wound and the top of my trunks. "And when I took my top off," she said.
"You noticed that?"
"Of course."
"Thought maybe you were too busy slapping me," I said.
"Ha ha, very funny."
She dipped the rag again. As it came up soaked, her left hand plucked the waist of my trunks away from my belly. She mashed the sopping cloth against my skin, and a flood washed down. It drenched my works, then spilled out through the leg holes of my trunks and streamed down my legs.
Keeping my trunks pulled out, she dunked the rag into the stream again. She swished it around. "Would you like me to take my top off again?" she asked. "I could do it, you know. Right here, right now. You want me to?"
"Sure."
"Or would you rather have me pull your trunks down?"
All I could think of to say was, "You're kidding."
"Take your pick."
"How about both?"
"One or the other."
It wasn't a very difficult decision. "My trunks," I said.
"Why?"
"Sort of tight in there."
"I'll bet. Why else?"
I thought about that for a second, then said, "It'll make it easier for washing the blood off me."