Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books).

With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

Just Like Old Times

By Laura Rodley

Her husband Ralph was so enamored of the camping trips he’d taken with his father as a kid. The tent falling down, raccoons stealing their food that they’d tied up on a tree to keep it away from bears, the musty smell of the tent. Here they were under that same green wool tent, as rain fell, dripping through in places where mice had gnawed on the wool.

Ralph was still enthused; they were within walking distance of High Meadows, with the Atlantic to jump in. All they had to worry about was sharks. Sunburn. Bringing sunscreen, snacks. Cell phones didn’t work here, so Raymond and Gertie couldn’t play their games or text their friends. “True togetherness.” “A learning experience.” “Dispel their fears of the wild.” No matter what he said, Lana held onto her fears of the sharks.

Rude awakening: campers in the tent next to them swore, fought, then had loud and obnoxious make-up sex. Worse than her UMass college dorm days with her roommate and lover fooling around in the next bed. Raymond and Gertie were only nine and ten, and she’d wanted to spare them learning about “the birds and the bees” quite yet, but here they were, in listening range. On the other side, someone was moaning, perhaps in pain or having a nightmare and in another tent with all the latest UV protection trimmings, two dogs were barking, and kids were fighting. Behind them, loud drinking parties, and another aroma: skunk. The cloud cover made sounds sound nearer so they could clearly hear people crush their cans, break their bottles. Raymond started coughing from the campfire smoke, had to use his inhaler. Raymond and Gertie started quarreling.

“Let’s go home. I never want to hear another fighting child,” Lana said, lying next to Ralph in separate sleeping bags, since the other wool tent they brought from his camping days had skillet-sized holes in it, and they now were all in one tent.

“We’ll try the campground next one over, bound to be better,” whispered Ralph, ever the optimist, dropping to an even lower pitch, “And you said you wanted another baby.”

“First we’ll have to buy another tent.”

“Deal,” he said, holding her hand over the top the sleeping bags.

They packed their tent, carried their knapsacks to the parking lot, and their car was gone. Instead, there was a truck-sized pothole in the middle of the asphalt where it had been. They edged closer to look. “No further,” said Ralph. Then they heard a baby crying. “Hear that?” The sound was coming from a basket on the other side of the pothole. “I’ll check it out,” said Ralph, followed by Lana.

“Me too,” echoed Gertie and Raymond.

“Stay there,” said Lana.

Ralph reached the basket. Inside was a tiny baby girl. Then the asphalt gave way underneath them and Lana and Ralph plunged below, Ralph instinctively clutching the basket to his chest.

They landed with a splash, swiftly swept into darkness under a tunnel. Then a wave slapped them along to an edge of dry rock. Lana coughed. Ralph was unconscious, still clutching the basket. Light was drifting through a hole in the ceiling. “Thank God it’s daytime,” thought Lana, reaching for Ralph. He’d hit his head, blood spilling from above his ear. As she caught her breath, Lana noticed paintings on the wall of what had to be a cave. Horses, whales, schools of fish and fisherman catching them with spears and long boats. Long-haired men wearing breeches, women making food in pots. Clam shells. No time to study them, she raised Ralph’s head, set it on a bundle of seaweed. She checked the baby and she looked up at her, fingers in her mouth. “A miracle,” thought Lana, who did not believe in miracles. She checked the baby’s bedding. There was a dry layer next to the baby. She took her out, held her close inside her insulated jacket that was somehow still dry inside.

She had no matches in her pocket. Everything was packed. How would anyone find them?

Had Gertie and Raymond also fallen in? Concentrating, she realized she’d only heard two splashes when they’d fallen in. Frantic, she looked around her, saw some random long bones in the corner. Hopefully the children had gone to find help.

She shook Ralph, “Wake up. We’ve got to get out of here. What are we going to do? I can’t carry you. I don’t know why this baby isn’t crying,” she wondered aloud and wished she hadn’t because the baby started crying. “Help, help! Anybody!”

“Hello,” sounded faintly to her right.

“Over here.”

Then stronger, “Hello!” A white-bearded man wearing a sheepskin coat and carrying a basket of clams walked over from a tunnel on the right. “Thought only I knew ‘bout this here cave. How’d ya get here?”

“Fell in.”

“Can ya walk out?”

“My husband’s injured.”

“Best move him before tide gets enny higher, get udders to help.”

“I can’t leave him.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Don’t leave us.”

“Have to,” he shuffled away.

Lana crouched by Ralph, warmed the baby against her, and the light faded.

Flashlights bounced off the walls, footsteps, a rescue squad with a stretcher. “Hello!”

“Over here,” Lana called.

Then, “Mom, Dad,” as Gertie and Raymond entered. “We found you. We got people to search!””