Chapter Fourteen: Vacation, Resumed

The next day, Monday, was a fairly quiet one. After we’d had a rather unorthodox breakfast of lunchmeat sandwiches, Biff and Chet made the long run into the nearest town to restock the groceries. Having Dad there had put an extra dent in the food. Joe and I elected to stay behind. We’d had about enough of traveling for a little while.

We were pretty lazy that day; we were tired after our restless night and didn’t feel like doing anything energetic. Joe went in swimming for a while, but the most I did was to sit on the end of the pier and stick my feet in. I didn’t know how he could swim after getting so nearly drowned a few days ago, but I didn’t ask. No sense giving him the willies. I knew I’d have to get back in the water sooner or later if I wanted to keep from getting phobic about it, but I preferred to take it slowly, in stages.

When Joe’d had enough of swimming- as indicated by him climbing out and coming over to shake water all over me- we sat in the sun for a while without talking.

“We’re going to have to do quite a bit of editing on this one,” I said at last.

“Yeah. Mom might go for us helping find a lost kid, but I don’t think she’d approve of Lafoote or Rhee,” Joe agreed quietly. That struck me as one heck of an understatement, but I didn’t try to correct him. It would be too difficult to try and phrase it accurately.

We talked a little longer, not so much about the case as about all the ground we’d covered in the past week. "We can certainly put it down as a foreign case, even if it isn't Sri Lanka," I remarked, and Joe laughed quietly.

"Who knows, that might be next."

"I'd settle for something a little closer."

“Yeah. It's funny, too, Frank- if it’d been a little mistier, or if we hadn’t gone out fishing so early, we might’ve avoided the whole thing,” Joe mused.

“Well, no, not exactly. Dad still would’ve called us to help find Rhee. But it all mighta turned out way different,” I pointed out.

“Hmm, true.” Joe was quiet for a moment, running his hand through his almost-dry hair. “Let’s go in and see if we can scrounge something for lunch,” he suggested after a moment. I agreed, and between leftovers and ingenuity, we had a pretty decent meal.

It was getting on towards four when Chet and Biff arrived, and from the way they both slammed doors as they got out of the car, it seemed plain they’d gotten into another argument. Joe, who was sitting on the steps, frowned, glanced over his shoulder at me, and then got up. I’d been about to go inside, but turned back around and went to help bring in the numerous bags of groceries. Half an hour later, everything was put away and both the fellows seemed to have calmed down a bit. Joe escaped outside while I went into our room and tried to settle on a book to read. I had brought several of my favorites, but at that moment, none of them seemed particularly enticing.

Neither Joe nor I ever did ask what that argument had been about, but for all intents and purposes, it was over by dinnertime. We had a fairly simple dinner, since Chet was weary from the trip, and then there was ice cream for dessert. Biff had managed that by taking a small cooler along and packing the two gallons in several bags of ice, transferring it to the freezer when he got back. There was some teasing about what uses that ice could be put to- like down people’s backs or into their beds while they were sleeping- but in the end Biff emptied all the water and half-melted ice chunks into the lake.

I was in the outhouse when whenever it was that sparked the pillow fight happened. I heard a few muffled shouts, and on opening the door, nearly got beaned by a rogue sofa cushion. After pitching it back towards Joe, I avoided the battle and tried to stay out of the way, which was easier said than done. Chet went to the opposite extreme and pummeled both Biff and Joe with pillows until he nearly knocked a lamp over.

“Hold it!” I called, grabbing the lamp and righting it. “Stop, time out, cool it...knocking things over is not in the itinerary, nor is breaking them.”

“Yes, Dad,” Biff snorted, tossing his pillow back on the sofa, and suddenly I bristled with anger.

“Well, it’s your parents’ stuff; I guess you can smash it if you want, but I think Joe and Chet should try to restrain themselves. After all, they are guests,” I said in icy tones.

“Smash what?” Biff demanded.

“The lamp, for one,” I snapped, gesturing at it.

“Hey, bro...chill a little,” Joe suggested quietly. “He didn’t see it. Good save,” he added. I shrugged and headed for the door, kicking aside another pillow as I went. Joe joined me a few minutes later, sitting down beside me on the steps. I was grateful for his presence, and grateful that he didn’t try to ask what was wrong or start a conversation. I couldn’t have said exactly what was wrong, and I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

It’s not like me to get so sharp and I knew I was overreacting to Biff’s response, but the truth was that my mood had been pretty low since Dad left. The case had rattled me more than I liked to admit, and Dad’s departure had left me feeling more insecure than usual. It meant I was back to being the ‘person in charge’, and I had even less enthusiasm for that now than I’d had when the trip started. But just then I wasn’t in the mood for self-analysis, so I just sat there feeling surly and trying to get over it. I half-expected Biff to come out and carry on with the ‘discussion’, but he didn’t and I was about as grateful for that as I was to Joe for keeping me company. Joe had shut the cabin door- very likely on purpose- so I couldn’t tell if Chet and Biff were discussing me, or for that matter, discussing anything.

Probably. Maybe Chet’s the one suggesting that Biff not mess with me right now.

After a while, I calmed enough to notice that it was a clear night, starry and warm, with almost enough of a breeze to keep the bugs away entirely. I gradually relaxed and even started to feel a little foolish for snapping off the way I had. It certainly hadn’t solved the problem, only compounded it. I resolved to try and keep my temper under better control and was just thinking that maybe we should head back inside- it was getting pretty late- when Joe demonstrated his ability to read my mind. “Ready to go back in?”

“I was just about to say that,” I told him, putting my hand on his shoulder. “And- Joe- thanks for the company. It helped.”

He gave me the look he always gives me when I thank him for some piece of moral support: a sort of smile that’s more in his eyes than anywhere around his mouth. Not wry or subdued; it’s as if his feeling is too deep for a friendly, easygoing grin. I always feel this rush of affection, or connection, or something, when he smiles like that. “Anytime.” He touched my fingers for a moment, then pried my hand from his shoulder, stood up, and pulled on my arm till I gave in and stood, too. He nearly ended up pulling me down the steps to the ground, and I gave him a little warning cuff as he led me to the door and opened it.

When I got inside, I noticed right away that the door of Chet’s and Biff’s bedroom was shut. Biff was sitting on the sofa, though, ostensibly reading a motorcycle magazine. He looked up as we came in, then quickly looked down and closed the magazine. I also noticed that the cushions had all been picked up and put neatly back on the sofa and chair, and I assumed the pillows were back on the beds, too. “Uh, hey,” our friend said rather nervously, which puzzled me a little. “Everything, um, cool?”

“Actually, it’s still pretty warm outside,” Joe said lightheartedly. Biff looked at him a moment, then grinned wryly.

“You know what I mean.”

I nodded. “It’s cool.”

Biff relaxed visibly. “Thanks for grabbing the lamp. My mom’s real fond of it. It belonged to her mother, and she’d skin me if anything happened to it.” He got up, dropping the magazine on the little square table that served as a coffee-table, hesitated a moment longer, then murmured, “See ya in the morning,” and escaped into the bedroom. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, and turned to look at my brother questioningly. Joe regarded the closed door rather wryly, head cocked to one side, and when he caught my gaze, his eyebrows went up in a silent question. He didn’t seemed at all surprised at Biff’s behavior; it was my reaction he was questioning. I frowned and led the way into our room, where we could talk without being overheard.

“What’s with him?” I asked as soon as the door was closed.

“What do you mean?” Joe countered, sitting down on his bed with a yawn. I crawled up the foot of my own bed to the head; my bed was against the wall and his was still right beside it, from when we’d moved it two nights ago.

“You know what I’m talking about!” I protested, sprawling on my back. “Why’s he acting like that?”

“Yeah, but I want you to spell it out. What is he acting like? Answer that and you’ll answer your own question.”

“You sound like me,” I muttered, and suffered a sudden realization of why my ‘question for a question’ tactics often earn me a fist in the arm- or elsewhere. I concentrated on my question, not waiting for a smartass reply. “He’s acting like he’s nervous- but what’s he got to be nervous about? I mean, he could beat me in a fight...”

“You don’t fight with adults,” Joe answered cryptically, and I heaved a sigh.

“Joe...it’s too late for riddles. Please. Either help me with this or don’t, but stop confusing me, okay? I don’t have your intuition, so I can’t figure out what’s behind Biff’s behavior.”

Joe turned onto his stomach, propped himself up on his elbow, and regarded me seriously. “Biff wouldn’t ever get into a fight with you over an authority issue, Frank; no more than he’d take a swing at his father- or our Dad. Roughhousing is one thing, but challenging you is another thing entirely.”

I shut my eyes and waded through that. “You’re saying that when I snapped at him, he took it as...as me asserting my authority? And now he’s nervous ‘cause he thinks I’ll-” I stopped, feeling very tired. Bloody authority! “I still don’t get it. What’s he think I’ll do, ground him?”

“Probably not that, but he didn’t know whether you’d come back inside as his friend or as his authority figure,” Joe informed me. “So he didn’t know how to behave. Sure, it’s his parents’ place and we’re his guests- but when the adults aren’t around...well, you’re the next-closest thing, big brother. Even though you don’t like it much.”

“Now there’s an understatement,” I grouched, draping my arm across my eyes. “It’s bad enough being ‘responsible’ without being ‘surrogate parent and disciplinarian’ as well.” A new thought struck me and I lifted my arm, peering at Joe. “How d’you know, anyway?”

“Been there, done that.” Joe shrugged, his smile almost apologetic. “I won’t say you replace Mom or Dad in my mind, but there’ve been times you’ve made me wonder if I’d be facing my brother or my lecturer.”

“Lecturer,” I repeated, groaning.

“Like when you used to lecture me about my grades...you sounded a lot more like a teacher- or maybe a teacher’s aide- than yourself.”

“Great.” Not.

“You said if you knew how to stop doing it, you would,” Joe ventured.

“I wish you wouldn’t sound like that, I’m only your brother, not-”

“I know, but giving advice that nobody’s asked for is tricky.”

“I would be thrilled for some advice,” I told him, and I meant it.

“Okay, then my suggestion would be to keep your suggestions and opinions and all strictly to yourself. Like tonight- instead of suggesting we stop pillow-fighting, you could have just waited till it fizzled out. You even could have let the lamp fall over- it wasn’t your responsibility to keep it from breaking, it was Biff’s. That’s kinda the harsh line, though; he is our buddy and we don’t want stuff broken.”

“Keep my mouth shut, in other words?” As if I was much inclined to chat anyway...but he had a point; when I did talk, it was often to make a suggestion or give a reminder.

Joe frowned, thinking. “Not really that simple. It’s more- decide what you want to be responsible for and don’t go any further than that. I mean, if someone’s health or safety is at stake, yeah, time to be responsible. But if it’s just a matter of ordinary inconveniences, like broken lamps...”

“So just let people look out for themselves?” I was having a hard time grasping the idea.

“Assume that they’re capable of looking out for themselves,” he clarified. “And if you’re wrong, well- you were wrong, and they’ve learned a lesson.”

“But that’s so...” I nearly said spiteful. “Insensitive.”

“Frank, that’s teenagers,” Joe said seriously, sitting up. “Lots of teenagers are immature and self-centered- at least a little bit, and some a lot. They’re kids trying to be adults, but they haven’t finished- some haven’t started- learning foresight and responsibility yet. You-” he pointed at me “-have. I have, too. Not as much as you have, but more than some. So you can be a typical teen and focus more on ‘me, now’ than ‘us, future’ and not be very mature or responsible- or, you can be you and accept that you’re a lot more grown-up than many people your age.”

I was silent for a long time, thinking about that. Joe lay back down after a while, turning onto his side and watching me ponder. “I’m not always mature,” I said at last, not sure whether to feel defensive or not.

“No. Even Dad isn’t always mature- no one is ‘always’ anything. I’m not saying you have to go to extremes, Frank-”

“So either I continue to be me and not particularly enjoy it, or I start imitating my peers and feeling like a fake.” I shifted to sit cross-legged, planting my elbows on my knees and resting my chin in my hands. Joe was silent for a moment, blinking, and I found a blush spreading over my face as I realized what I’d said. I’d never suggested before that I didn’t like being me.

“Or take a middle ground,” Joe responded at last. “Like instead of reminding three people of four different things, just ask if everyone’s sure they haven’t forgotten something. You can scale back without going into complete shut-down, you know.”

“Well...” I rubbed my forehead, trying to concentrate on that aspect of things. “Okay, I take your point about scaling back. But- I don’t like always being in charge, but it has become a habit. I think I should try to break the habit completely; trying to scale it back will probably just mean that I fall right back into it again.”

“Pessimist!” my brother snorted. “Perfectionist!” He cuffed my knee gently, and I looked tiredly at him. “If you didn’t expect perfection from yourself all the time, you’d enjoy being you a heck of a lot more,” he informed me. “And if you didn’t always anticipate screwing up, you’d get satisfaction from seeing things go right, instead of worrying about the next thing that might go wrong.”

“When did you turn into a psychologist?” I wondered aloud.

“I haven’t, Frank, but I’ve known you all my life and I have been taught to see patterns,” Joe reminded me. “Just like you have,” he added with a smile. “And you know you’ve given me a lot of good, accurate advice about my weak points. You’ve helped me be a lot more content with who I am. I just wish you were happy being you.”

I blushed again, wishing I’d been a little more careful with my words. “Actually, most of the time I am,” I told him, and wondered if I was lying or not. I dismissed the thought almost at once, though; I wasn’t up for a bout of self-analysis at the moment. “It’s just this authority thing- when that’s not being a problem, I’m fine. I really don’t know which is worse, though: the actual ‘old for my age/be the responsible one’ thing, or getting teased about it all the time.”

“Oh.” Joe frowned and I wondered if he was convinced or not. “Well- we got ‘em to quit blond-joking me, so maybe we can get ‘em to stop teasing you, too.”

“Worth a try,” I agreed, trying to squash a strong sense of pessimism. Joe was right about that; my habit of looking on the dark side of any situation was really not a good one. I should try to think positive. “Especially if I- scale back.”

“Yeah, that way there’ll be less for ‘em to joke about in the first place.” Joe smiled and I felt a twinge of genuine optimism. Maybe this really would work. "But it wouldn't hurt to ask 'em to cool it."

I brooded over that for a few minutes, realizing he was right and wondering how to go about it without making my friends feel lousy. Then I decided I was too tired to figure that one out now. It would wait till my head was clearer. “In the morning," I murmured.

“Yeah. Too late now." Joe turned over onto his back and yawned. "Time to go to sleep."

"Definitely." I reached down and pulled up my covers from the foot of the bed. "Thanks, Joe."

"Y'welcome," he replied, smiling. "G’night, big brother.”

“Does that mean I’m supposed to get up and turn off the light?” I inquired. “’Cause if it does, I’m going to have to walk right across your bed.”

Joe grumbled a little, but he got up and switched off the overhead light, leaving the room in darkness. I lay awake for a while, watching the moonlight slowly shift across the ceiling, listening to Joe’s quiet breathing, and thinking of all we’d talked about.

 

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.