Fear of Frying

napping. Not nice for a camp-out. She was still stumbling around trying to get her bearings when Shelley came in wearing an oversized khaki poncho with a hood.
    “Ah, the tent wardrobe already!“ Jane said.
    “If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty,“ Shelley exclaimed. “And I’ll have you know I haven’t eaten a bite since lunch.“ She bent way over and let the poncho slide off over her head. “I brought you one of these, too. They’re really toasty. Flannel-lined and everything. Benson loaned us a bunch.“
    “What can you possibly imagine I’d need it for?“ Jane asked.
    “Why, to wear to the campfire dinner, of course.“
    “Shelley, you’re kidding! What do I look like? Admiral Byrd? Noah? An idiot? It’s cold and rainy out there.“
    “No, it’s not so bad. The rain’s stopped and it’s actually a little warmer now than it was earlier. It’ll be fun.“
    “Compared to what? Having our fingernails ripped out?“
    “What a poop you’re being,“ Shelley said. “A poop, I say! Come on. You’ll see I’m right. If you really, really hate it, you can come back here and starve. This is dinner we’re talking about, Jane.“
    “You mean we don’t get to eat unless we go sit in the rain?“
    “First, it’s not really raining—”
    Jane gestured at the glass doors. “Shelley, that silvery wet stuff falling out there is rain.“
    “No, it’s just the residue of rain dripping off the leaves,“ Shelley said sweetly.
    “Oh, of course. That makes a huge difference.“
    “And secondly, you can stay here and eat if you want. I think there are some of those neon orange crackers with peanut butter in my car. At least, they were there last summer. They might be a little smashed, but they’ll taste the same as ever. And I’m pretty sure there’s some room-temperature ginger ale somewhere in my luggage. What a feast!“
    “How do you get into these tent garments?“ Jane asked with a sigh.

Seven
    Once she had donned the long underwear, extra socks, and the lined poncho, Jane had to admit—not out loud to Shelley, of course—that she was quite comfortable. And the rain had stopped, though there were still flashes of lightning in the western sky and occasional low murmurs of thunder. As she and Shelley headed up the road to the campsite, they could see Liz and Al Flowers’s tall forms ahead of them and could hear John and Eileen Clay-pool’s loud voices behind them.
    The campsite had been transformed. Instead of a bland, green area with a circle of rocks, it was full of people and color. There was a large, rather spread-out, glowing fire inside the ring of rocks, which had burned down to orange embers. Various cooking gadgets surrounded it.
    There was a table set up for food preparation to one side of the campfire and a canopy-style tent covering a long table and benches on the other side. Benson was too busy to do much more than call out greetings as they gathered. His mother, his wife, and two young men were acting as helpers. Bob Rycraft must have been the first arrival and was getting in everyone’s way. Jane could imagine Bob taking his enthusiasm home and digging a fire pit in his backyard. In his khaki poncho, he looked even more like a sleek, contented lion curiously exploring.
    Jane was feeling enthusiastic herself. The smell was divine: a mix of pines, woodsmoke, rain, and food. Better than any perfume.
    Jane and Shelley joined Al Flowers at the table. Liz, naturally, had gone to the preparation table and was no doubt driving poor Benson mad with questions. The table was laid with a flowered tablecloth with matching napkins, and while their plates were heavy plastic, the silverware was real. “What a transformation!“ Shelley said to Al.
    He rumbled amiable agreement.
    Eileen and John Claypool joined them. Eileen was so bundled up under her poncho that she waddled. She had on one boot, and on the other foot, a fuzzy pink house slipper with a plastic bag tied around it. “Does this place ever smell great!“ she said. “What are those metal boxes around the fire?“
    “Reflector ovens,“ Al said. “There’s a cake in one of them.“ His sparkling white grin against his dark face and the dark background of pines made Jane think of the Cheshire cat.
    She turned a little so she could catch some light from the fire on her watch. It was only six o’clock, but it could have been midnight—or four in the morning. If you were out here without a clock and knew nothing of stars, how