Warpaint

“Good luck with that whole picking and choosing thing.” I turned to Bodo. “So what about you? What is your offer going to be?” I was trying to be all mature and act like I wasn’t still pissed at him for being a jerk.



“I’m gonna grow some stuff. Some tomatoes. And maybe I’ll be an alligator farmer.”



I laughed. “An alligator farmer? What are you talking about?”



“Well, what do you think you’ff been eating all dis time?”



I looked down at my plate and said weakly, “Deer meat?” I looked up at him, hoping he’d confirm my guess.



“The udder day, maybe. But dat is alligator tails right dare.” He pointed to the piece of meat that had tasted like watered-down chicken to me.



“Oh. Geez. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”



“What’s da problem? Meat is meat.”



I instantly felt sick to my stomach and faint. I glanced over at Peter to see that his face had gone white.



“That’s not true,” I said, dead serious, staring at Bodo.



Bodo looked at Peter and then me, confused. “What? What did I say? Why are you looking at me like dat?” After a couple more seconds, his expression changed. “Oh, okay. I know what you are thinking. Of course, meat is not always meat. Sometimes it’s a person’s body part and den of course it’s not okay. I am sorry, Peter, I wasn’t thinking about dat. It’s not in my head like dat.”



“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said in a strained voice. “I know what you meant.”



Bodo ran his hands through his hair in a frustrated gesture. “Dis whole conversation is going in a bad way. I want to fix it. I don’t like for you guyss to be mad.”



“Fix it by telling us your secrets,” I said, point blank. I was tired of the games.



Bodo sighed and then stood. “Never mind. It’s useless,” he said, before stalking off.



“What was that all about?” asked Peter, watching him go.



“I would really like to be able to answer that question, Peter. I really would.” My mind was going a million miles an hour. “I know you don’t want to hear me say it. But after his meat is meat comment, I have to.”



“Bryn…” Peter was shaking his head.



“What if he is?” I said in a loud whisper. “What if he was a canner before he met us? What then, huh? He can’t stay here if he’s one of them.”



“He’s not one of them. He couldn’t have been. He’s too … nice.”



“Yeah, but nice and hungry maybe sometimes don’t mix. Maybe sometimes the hunger wins out over the niceness.”



Peter thought about it for a second. “He is pretty muscular.”



“Yeah, right? I mean, how did he stay so buff if all he had to eat were Pringles?”



“They’re fattening?” offered Peter, weakly.



“Fattening, maybe. Muscle-building? Not so much.”



“We should just ask him instead of sitting here thinking the worst.”



I snorted. “Right. We’ll just go up to him and say, ‘Did you used to eat people before you met us?’ ” I shook my head. “I think that’s almost the same as asking someone if he’s a child molester. He’s not going to admit it, and if he’s never done something terrible like that, it’ll offend him.”



“So what if you offend him? We need to know.”



“Well, if he’s not guilty of doing something bad, I don’t want to accuse him of it.”



Peter sighed. “So we’re right back to where we started.”



“Maybe. Maybe not.”



“You have that devious look in your eye, Bryn. The one that makes my butt hairs stand on end.”



I laughed. “Ew. I so do not need a vision of your bum fur in my mind right now.”



“What are you thinking about? Tell me.”



“Your butt hair, thanks to you. I was thinking of a plan before.”



“Well ignore my butt hair for a minute and tell me your plan.”



“I was just thinking that we can act like we don’t care and then follow him when he disappears again … see where he goes.”



“There are only about five problems with that plan,” said Peter, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, obviously disappointed in my suggestion.



“Oh, yeah? Enlighten me.”



“Well, first, neither of us is good at sneaking.”



“We could get one of the Meeks to do it for us.”



“Which leads us to the other problem of tipping them off that we suspect Bodo of something bad, which I will go on the record as saying is a bad idea. Even worse than your other one.”



“What else?” I said, trying not to be offended about essentially being called an idiot.



“He’ll catch us and then be hurt that we didn’t trust him and maybe not want to be with us anymore.”



“Okay, I agree, that would suck - if he’s not a canner. Anything else?”



“He could just be off doodling. And I sure as heck don’t want to walk up on that … activity.”



I laughed. “I hear he’s a good doodler, though.”



“Shut up.”



“Is that it? All your reasons for why we shouldn’t go after him?”



“Yeah. I think so.”



“Well, none of them are good enough for me to listen to you.”



“Okay, fine. But don’t say later that I didn’t warn you.”



“I’m going to.”



“I won’t listen.”



“I’ll make you.”



“I’ll titty twist you.”



I covered my boobs. “Stay away from my lovely lady lumps.”



Peter laughed. “Please. They’re more like mosquito bites than lumps.”



I looked at him, exaggeratedly appalled. “How dare you insult my lady lumps, in the back and in the front.”



“No one said anything about your lumps in the back. You actually have lumps in the back. Not so much in the front, though.”



I removed my hands and looked down. “You may have a point. I’ve lost a lot of weight.”



Peter shoved me gently before standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Hooters would just get in the way out here.”



“Yeah,” I said, still examining my lack of lady lumpage. “They get sweaty, you know. This means I have less sweat.”



“And we all know you could use less of that,” said Peter, giggling from the pantry area.



“Are you organizing cans again, Mr. OCD?”



“Of course.”



I sighed. It was almost scary to think we were getting into a routine here. I wasn’t sure if it made me happy or nervous.



I turned my thoughts back to Bodo, wondering where he was right now and what he was hiding. I couldn’t think of a single thing, other than former canner activity, that would keep him so shuttered off from us. But I was determined to find out what it was, and if that meant playing indian girl sneaking around in the swamp, I was going to do it.



I thought of Coli. She was pretty good at it. Maybe she’d give me lessons. I planned to ask her the next time I saw her, which turned out to be at the meeting just a few hours later.



***



The day flew by. I ended up doing only two training sessions, and while I laid around waiting for a third to come, the sounds of Peter organizing cans and whatnot put me to sleep.



I was awakened by Peter and Bodo arguing about the drawings that Bodo wanted to put on the poles that supported our hut above the water.



“No, you are not going to doodle on the house, Bodo. It’s not our house, to begin with, and you have nothing to doodle with. If you have a pen, I need it to put Bryn’s schedule together.”



“I don’t haff a pen. But I can use udder things. It’s not a problem. I will adapt to da situation. You are gonna like it.”



Peter sighed loudly. “Fine. Doodle away. I don’t really care. I just don’t want you to upset anyone.”



“I will ask permission first, don’t you worry. And I am a goot artist, you will see. I’m gonna draw some birds, and I can see dey like da birds. Did you see da tattoos?”



“Yes, they did seem to have a lot of bird tattoos, you’re right.”



I got up and joined them, trying to ignore my weird feelings about Bodo. If I were going to sneak around behind him, I was going to have to let him think I had dropped the whole thing. I couldn’t have him on edge or suspicious of me.



“I think the idea of drawing birds is a good one.”



“Oh, really? Why? Are you a bird lover?” asked Bodo, sounding surprised and happy.



Holy mood swing. “Uh, I guess. I mean, they’re pretty. I wouldn’t mind having some fried chicken right now.”



Bodo frowned at me. “Birds and chickens are different things.”



“How so?” I asked. “They all have feathers. They’re all edible, aren’t they?”



“Maybe dat’s true. But dat doesn’t mean you should eat da birds, even dough you can. Just like da people. Just because you can eat dem, it’s still wrong to do it.”



“Well, that’s because they’re people, not animals,” said Peter.



“Some birds are more intelligent dan udders, like people. You should not eat da smart birds.”



“Why?” I asked. He seemed kind of serious about this, which was weird, even considering he and I had sort of had a disagreement. Why get your undies in a bunch over stupid birds?



“Because smart birds can be your friends. Dey can help you to survive. Dumb birds like da chickens are good for making food only. Either eggs or meat, whatever you want. But smart birds, dey are not for making food. Just for getting food.”



I rolled by eyes. “Whatever.” His English was clearly falling apart. It was the only explanation for this craziness, other than actual craziness which I was pretty sure he didn’t suffer from.



“I think what you’re saying makes sense, Bodo. But let’s face it - if we’re starving and there’s a smart bird standing there, I’m going to eat him. It’s all about survival.”



Bodo put his head down. “I know. It’s all about da survival. For some people.”



His last comment caught my attention. “What’s that supposed to mean … ‘for some people’?”



He shrugged. “Dat’s what I said. I mean dat.”



“Are you saying you don’t only care about survival?”



“Maybe.” He looked up at me in challenge.



It just pissed me off all over again. “Yeah, right. As if you’d stand there and die of starvation while a smart bird hopped all around you squawking. You’d grab that thing and wring its neck just like anyone else. And the only reason you’d say you wouldn’t is because you just haven’t been hungry enough.”



Peter blanched. “Um, Bryn? I’m pretty sure that’s the canner’s creed.”



“Shut up, Peter. That’s not what I’m saying. There’s a difference between the life of a human and the life of a dumb bird.”



Bodo stared at me for a few long seconds, before turning and walking away again. I watched his back disappear through the trees.



I sighed heavily in frustration. “What is wrong with that guy, anyway? See?” I threw my hands up and looked at Peter, practically demanding an explanation. “One minute he wants to be Mr. Bryn, and the next he wants me to starve and let a stupid bird live! I don’t get it!”



“Maybe he’s a bird lover? How am I supposed to know? Maybe it’s a German thing.”



“I don’t remember hearing or reading that Germans have a special affinity for birds.”



“Well, then, you don’t pay much attention in history class.”