~2~

Mrs. Robinson

It's a little secret, just a Robinson affair

Most of all you've got to hide it from the kids

I'd met Beth Robinson when I was seven years old, on one of the first of my annual camping trips with my family. I'd been curious and outgoing, exploring the whole of the campground by bike even when my parents told me to stay close to the site, to never leave my cousins. They'd all been a bit more rule-obeying than I had ever been, which was probably for the better. But despite the number of times my mother had tried to instill in me manners and calmness, my father's untamed free-spirit had been what I'd clearly inherited from the start.

I was biking around the campground when I saw a girl my own age doing the same thing. As I watched, she pushed herself too fast over a speed bump and her bike went flying. While she miraculously sustained no injuries worse than a few scratched-up knees and a gash on her cheek, the fall looked brutal and I rushed over to help her. I helped her back to her campsite, where her grandparents, great aunt and uncle, brother and cousins all crowded around Beth in fright and welcomed me as hero. I was served ice cream in a cone and complimented for "doing such an altruistic thing as such a young person." I hadn't known what altruistic meant at the time, but I took it along the lines of "heroic" and accepted the praise and the new friend I'd made proudly.

For the rest of the camping trip, Beth and I were inseparable. I think my family started to get annoyed the number of times I'd had her over for dinner around the campfire or went to the beach with her family, but they agreed I was in good hands (my mother had gone over to meet them and had, however reluctantly, no choice but to give them her stamp of approval).

By some miraculous series of coincidences, Beth's family camping trips and ours managed to overlap for the next seven years. While we never kept in contact outside of the campground, those were some of my best memories and she one of my best friends. I'd looked forward to seeing her every year, and the fact that I could only count on seeing her once a year only made it more fun. There were always so many stories to share, so many things to do and never enough time to get bored or annoyed with each other.

It all stopped the first year it was just my grandparents, my cousins and I camping. Despite the numerous times I'd hung out with Beth and occasionally her brother Jude, the older members of the Robinson clan preferred to keep to themselves and my grandparents had never actually met them. However, when Beth had come over to our campsite in black combat boots, ripped jeans and a leather jacket the summer we turned fourteen, they decided they had to double check for themselves if the Robinsons were truly trustworthy. My grandmother had come back perturbed and confused, saying that they all seemed nice enough except for the grandmother, who I'd come to know as Mrs. Robinson. My grandfather had muttered had picked some choice words for her with a twinkle in his eye. He assured me that I could still spend time with Beth, under two conditions: one, that I never invited Mrs. Robinson over for dinner with her granddaughter; and two, that I never married Beth's brother because he couldn't bear to have Mrs. Robinson as family.

So despite that encounter, I'd gone back to Beth's site to see if she and Jude wanted to come to the lake with my cousins and I. I hadn't even made it into the site when I'd heard Mrs. Robinson's voice, stricter and rougher than ever, verbally tearing someone apart. It was only after the person in scrutiny had been termed a liar, a cheat, with family that couldn't be trusted that I realized she was talking about me. I wouldn't ever have believed it; Mrs. Robinson may been strict and uptight, but she'd never seemed aggressive to me like that. But I'd heard my name loud and clear, and I'd jumped on my bike and pedaled away faster than she could say "hypocrite".

Until today, I'd never seen Beth or Mrs. Robinson again.

* * *

As I fell asleep that night, I thought of everything that had gone on in that campground. I remembered my dad trying to fix my grandparents' old record player that so that we could listen to Elvis in the camper one rainy night; I remembered my mother laughing as it finally started playing, with Elvis chirping out Jailhouse Rock at double speed. My grandparents were sitting on the side, watching us all, my grandpa commenting that he wished my great uncle could be here to see it. He'd always loved rock n ' roll, my grandpa said .

But despite all the good memories and family associations I had here, I couldn't get the Robinsons off my mind. Beth had never tried to contact me after that, and I hadn't seen her when we'd come camping the next two years. I hadn't had the courage that summer to go back and see what had happened, but it had bothered me nonetheless. Now I was back, by myself, many years later with much more courage and much less to lose. My mind soon succumbed to the whispering trees and the distant cry of the loon that as they willed me to sleep, but I vowed I would consider it more in the morning.

* * *

A part of wanted to approach them. A part of me didn't. I tried to use the logic that what's done is done, that there's no use in fixing it if nothing is broke, but truthfully, I was afraid. I was afraid there was actually something I had done wrong, that Beth still wouldn't want to see me. That I'd rather be left with uncertainty than hatred and guilt.

I tried to pass the day doing the things we'd always done camping, but truthfully it wasn't enough of a distraction. I made a fire, cooked some lunch, even went swimming in the lake that butted up to the back of my campsite, but I felt myself constantly searching for reasons to get on my bike and ride past the Robinsons' sight. I never actually stopped, but I had to make sure that it was actually them, and that they weren't leaving yet.

It was late afternoon when, with a knot in my stomach, I finally made up my mind. I left my bike at the campsite and walked instead; it seemed stupid, but I felt more mature when I could be confidently walking instead of pedaling in on my bike with the same vintage red helmet I'd worn as a teenager. Plus, I could use the time to prepare myself.

I wasn't even sure what I would say. I tried to get something in mind, something that would seem confident without acting angry or arrogant or any of the other lovely words Mrs. Robinson had deemed me in this campground ten years ago, but nothing came. I was never much of a planner; rather, I just followed the wind and hoped it wouldn't push me off a cliff of my own creation.

I stopped in front of the campsite with their plaque out front, collecting my breath. Then, I stepped in.

* * *

A young man I didn't recognize saw me first; he wasn't the same one I'd seen with Beth earlier. He had been big, muscular, with shaggy black hair and a leather jacket; the guy standing in front of me had neat, wavy brown hair, a pair of reading glasses sitting on his face, button down shirt un-tucked and rolled up at the sleeves.

He was at the picnic table, immersed in a book, but the sound of my feet on the gravel caught his attention. Taking off his reading glasses, he rose slowly and made his way toward me, squinting as if he felt he should recognize me.

"Jackie?" he exclaimed .

My first thought was that I had no idea who this guy was. Actually, my very first thought had been "oh shit," but I recovered quickly and tried to look him over.. Was I supposed to remember this guy? Was it one of Beth's cousins, one who I'd only met once or twice when they'd stayed with her and her grandparents?

Then he got closer, and I looked up. He'd changed drastically since I'd last seen him, but I had never seen quite eyes the color of his. Some mix of green and blue like an ocean on a sunny day.

"Jude?" I still couldn't believe it was him. I remembered the chubby boy with the bowl cut who hadn't yet gone through puberty. When puberty had hit, I decided, it had hit him well.

"What are you doing here?" his eyes traveled around his campsite worriedly.

"I just... thought I'd say hi?" It sounded pathetic, even to me.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, look," I said. I might as well get it all out. "I don't know what the hell happened ten years ago with your dear old grandmother, but whatever I did, I didn't mean it."

"Yeah," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Beth took that bait when she was little, but she's questioned my grandmother about many years since. I still don't know what's up with her, but I get the feeling it has something to do with your family rather than you. Want to come in for a bit? My grandma went into town with my great aunt."

"I..." I wasn't really sure what to say. He was offering to let me in, let me say hello to Beth, and yet I still had no idea what my family or I had done to turn them against me. It seemed risky, but did I really have anything to lose? "Why not," I said, following him into the site.

He called for Beth and she emerged from the tent quickly, the black-haired guy I'd seen earlier at her side.

"Jackie," Beth said when saw me. I could sense an accusatory tone to her voice; obviously, she was not as nonchalant about the whole situation as her brother.

"Hey," I said hesitantly.

"What are you doing here?" When Beth said it, it sounded less like confusion or curiosity and more like an accusation.

Jude drew a breath, looking at me apologetically. Clearly, he hadn't anticipated his sister to still hold a grudge against me.

"What's going on?" The guy standing with Beth asked.

"Oh," Beth said. "Jesse, this is Jackie. Jackie, my husband Jesse." She said the word "husband" as if she needed to make it perfectly clear to me. As if I would try to steal him from her if she didn't.

"Hello," Jesse said cautiously, lost to the back story of the tension around us.

"Why are you-" Beth started. She was quickly cut off.

"Well, if it isn't little Jacqueline Seymour, all grown up. Come to visit with your grandparents again?"

I took a deep breath. It was that voice again, that voice I hadn't heard since it had last torn me to shreds.

"Mrs. Robinson," I said, voice strained in a would-be-polite tone.

She looked us all over, standing there in the campsite as if we were little kids who had just stolen cookies to eat before dinner. We all shrunk down as if under her gaze as if we had.

"I don't think you should be here," Mrs. Robinson said simply.

Another old woman who I recognized as Beth and Jude's great aunt came up behind her.

"Cecilia, honey," she muttered, putting her hand on Mrs. Robinson's shoulder. "Hello, Jackie, dear."

"Don't encourage her," Mrs. Robinson whispered back.

"I guess I'd better be going," I said quickly, the tension so thick I could have broken it with the old chainsaw my grandpa always used to cut firewood.

"Jackie..." Jude trailed off. His expression was still conflicted, as if he felt bad letting me leave this way but didn't want to face The Wrath Of Mrs. Robinson.

"Jackie, dear, don't leave just yet," the great aunt cooed.

"I... think that might be best," I said, hurrying toward the road.

"Cecilia here owes you an explanation," she said, her sweet voice tainted with a dash of sour.

Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips, holding her ground. I hesitated at the road. I didn't want to get involved in any Robinson family affairs, but if there was actually an explanation Mrs. Robinson would be willing to give me and her kids, I definitely wanted be around to hear it.

"Cecilia?" the great aunt pushed.

"Gramma?" Beth asked. "Is there something we should know?"

"Cecilia, you should tell them," a man I remembered to be Jude and Beth's great uncle joined his wife's side.

Mrs. Robinson sighed, a pained expression on her face.

"Fine."