The grainy buzz of the zipper tore up the front of the green, canvas army tent. Ingrid poked her head inside.
“You’re not sleeping already, are you?”
“Nah, I’m just writing,” I said. I held a flashlight between my chin and shoulder so the light beam hit my notebook.
“Quit it, we’re having fun. You don’t write when you’re camping!”
“I do.”
“Well, stop for now,” she said. “We don’t get to hang out anymore and I have to go back to the dorm on Monday.” She plopped next to me on a pile of sleeping bags and pillows. The huge tent had been our family’s shelter for many campouts. It smelled of dust and warm pine needles. The usual suspects accompanied us to the Mojave River: our parents, aunt and older cousins, their significant others. Outside the tent, a fire blazed in a stone pit. Railroad ties and logs served as benches, hosting the adults and their flasks of booze.
“What are you writing?” Ingrid asked. I liked the feeling of being alone, yet surrounded, just outside. Ingrid’s company made it even better.
“I just want to remember,” I said. “So, I’m writing what happened.”
We laid back and looked up at the roof of the tent. Shadows of juniper trees rustled in silhouette, dropping short needles over our heads.
“What happened?”
“Everything happened. Ma. Ballet. School. Rebecca.”
“Hm. Can I read it?”
“If you want to.”
Outside, the wind still blew. It was a long episode for a Santa Ana. We had endured it for a week now. My father had been concerned about building a fire and filled a bucket from the spigot at the ranger’s office. He kept it near the fire. Voices and laughter floated into the tent as Ingrid and I remained still, listening. My aunt began to sing: “Away out here they got a name for rain and wind and fire...”
My mother joined her and now their two voices, silly with alcohol, filled the campsite with the fervor of the old westerns they loved. “And they call the wind Maria...”
Ingrid and I laughed as the Santa Ana lent itself to the mood like a goofy stage prop. Now we heard our father’s baritone begin alone, as the others trailed off.
Something grabbed hold of my heart and twisted. I looked at Ingrid. Her eyes were wet. What was it about our father’s voice, alone? He rarely showed emotion, unless he was angry. This was a side we never knew. He continued, solo. From across the campground, someone with a harmonica jumped in to accompany him.
“And now I’m lost, so gone and lost, not even God can find me.”
I stopped trying to control the flow of tears and Ingrid laughed at my goofiness.
“Dork,” she said.
“Fruit loop,” I volleyed.
“Let’s go,” she darted out the flap and I followed. On the picnic table, Ingrid found an open bottle of port wine. She pulled the cork and poured into two Styrofoam cups. We sat on the table, our feet on the bench, watching our parents revel in fire, wind, and song.