MIST WRITES ABOUT HER ACTIVITIES WITH HER "KIDS," AND HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT DOCKER.

I was shaken by what I'd overheard sacked out under blankets beneath the pines last night.  Then,  waking up to the dawn beauty, all that disappeared with the mist in the redwoods as the sun rose higher above the mountains,  I sat up and stretched, gathered my blankets and went into the cabin.

Docker wasn't behind the bar.  I climbed up into the loft and found him naked, sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs with Linda and Pal (or Babe).  Back downstairs, I made myself an espresso, minding the valve.  I opened cupboard doors and found supplies: dry milk, bottled water, flour, packages of dried fruit and powdered eggs, freeze-dried meals, cereals, and other basics, enough to feed a few people for a month.  A propane stove and fuel sat on a shelf behind the bar.  I heard the kids' voices; grunts and shouts from the couple, and Docker's voice, loud: "Get fuckin' outta here!"  The kids scrambled down the ladder and jostled each other into the bathroom.  I made coffee and was mixing batter by the time they came out, tucking their thin, cotton shirts in threadbare jeans.

"You guys want some pancakes?"  From then on till the earthquake, I felt like Mary Poppins.

They were just mopping up maple syrup with the last few morsels at the rickety table when Docker, bare chested, in faded jeans, slid down the ladder frontwards, his black T-shirt wadded in his hand.  He made for the bar.  The boys glanced up, shoved another forkful into their mouth, and ran out the door.

            "Docker, I need to talk to you."  I leaned on the bar, hands wrapped around my cup.

"Go ahead, man, I'm all ears."  He ran his fingertips over the peaked flesh of his shoulders, then pulled on his shirt, poured himself a cup of coffee, and flopped down in his chair, legs spread.

            "Why am I here?  Why did you bring me up here when you've not said two words to me?  To babysit?  I feel like I'm invisible-  No, not invisible, an intruder, outsider.  That couple up there, they're so hostile, the chick, anyway.  What am I doing here?"

            "Maybe you should ask yourself those questions," he said, yawning, "Look, man-"

            "And I'm not 'man.'  I have a name.  Remember?  Sally?  You used to call me 'baby,' or 'hon,' or even by my name.  Are you afraid you'll seem soft in front of your 'gang'."  I waggled my fingers at ear level.  Docker held his cup between his thighs with both hands and sat very still.  In one quick movement, he hurled it against the wall.  Coffee streamed to the floor.  The dry wood drank it up.  The heavy mug rolled under the table.

            "You are bizarre!  What did you do that for?" I said," Can't you talk 'stead of throwing things?"  His breath rasped through his nose. 

            "Okay.  You're here 'cause you want to be.  You want to be with me.  Simple as that.  If it's not true, then split," he said softly, eyes focused on his hands, turning them palm up, then back, studying his fingernails.

          "Well, excuse me."  I set my cup on the bar.  "You wouldn't care?"  Docker looked up at me.  Gold flecks sparkled in his green eyes, set deep in the shelf of ivory-smooth cheekbones.

          "Course I'd care.  Come here, baby.  Let's go upstairs.  You go first.  I wanna watch your little ass twitch in your jeans."  We were naked before we sank down on the kids' mattress.  The way we made love, the things he said, left no doubt he wanted me there.  Afterwards, we lay for a moment.  Then Docker rose and knelt between my legs.  His penis shrank, skin wrinkling like a pushed up sleeve.  I raised my leg and placed the sole of my foot against it, feeling its heat, its stickiness from come and my fluids.

            "I forgot how you like to do that," he growled.

            "I can feel him growing again, Docker."  Even as I tried pushing it down, his penis strained against the pressure.  He lowered himself onto me. 

           "The only baby you're going to sit is me," he whispered, "I didn't know I could love somebody like you.  I'll never let you go."

            The only ones who'd speak to me were himself and his two kids, Billy-Bob and Papa Jo; and Linda's boy, Tadpole.  Docker, after barking out daily maintenance orders to his gang, hung out in the cabin, sitting in his favorite chair, holding subdued discourses on leadership strategy, which sounded straight out of The Prince, and smoking dope with Linda and Pal.  Mormo hovered in the background.  I looked forward to the nights when Docker and I were alone in each other's arms.  The rest of the time, I romped with the boys.  I'd never been around kids much, but we were drawn to each other because we were ignored.  We played hide and seek in the trees; they pretended they were Robin Hood and Little John.  Papa Jo was Friar Tuck; or we'd be the Robinson family.  (I had to tell them the stories; they'd never heard of them.)

A still from a film.  Richard Green as Robin Hood,

  They helped me build a tree-house out of dead branches in a massive old black oak.  We hunted frogs in the creek that ran wide and deep, beyond a stand of firs, a hundred or so yards from the cabin.  Here, I washed my underwear and the kids clothes (Docker made it clear from the start he didn't want women's "things" hanging on the racks in the bathroom), spreading them on boughs to dry, while they splashed around in the freezing water.  When they came out, their lips were purple, like they'd been eating blackberries.

            "Your Dad's pretty strict, isn't he?" I asked Billy-Bob on one such washday when he skipped up the bank, dripping wet.  I rubbed him down with a towel.  Papa Jo grabbed my hand and jerked it.  I looked at him.  The creek chattered, flowing past.

            "Don't," Billy-Bob said.

             The tiny child's brow furrowed.  "We-"

            "-Shut up, Papa Jo."  Billy-Bob turned to me.  "Yeah, our dad's real strict.  We always gotta do just like he says or he'll whup us good."  His glance at Papa Jo bore a trace of terror.  Tadpole collapsed under a tree and bowed his head.  He lifted a grubby hand to his mouth and chewed the skin around his fingernails.  Linda and Pal seemed to have no communication with nor did they show any affection for their little red-head.  Like Docker's boys, he too gravitated towards me.

            "Why doesn't he let you play with the other kids?  You want me to ask him for you?"    Compared to my three- I caught myself referring to them as mine- those children now seemed pale and listless, their eyes glassy, ringed with dark circles.  They rarely left their parents' sides. 

           "No!  No!  Don't do that, Sally, please.  Everything's okay.  We have you to play with, anyway.  We don't need them, do we?"  Billy-Bob looked to the others.  Tadpole stood up and ambled over to us.  I held them in my arms.

           "Okay.  It'll be us four, then.  We'll be the Four Musketeers!"

           "What're they?"  Billy-Bob hunched his shoulder to his ear and twisted his mouth.  So I launched into the story of the Three Musketeers. 

            We could play make-believe.  The reality in this wilderness was Docker's law.