Drizzled with Death(23)

The camel lowered its head and snuffled my chest. I couldn’t have moved if I had been on fire. I think I tried to whimper, but even my voice was so scared, it went and hid. The camel nibbled its lips along my collar and then onto my neck. When it licked my face, I could only be grateful I didn’t wet myself in full view of the congregation.

Now the crowd backed up and I backed up, too. One step at a time, like an experienced ballroom dancer, that camel backed me all the way to the peeling white clapboards of the church. I rummaged through my brain for camel facts but could only see cigarette packets in my mind’s eye. I didn’t think camels ate meat, but with the size of its teeth, I wasn’t sure the swallowing was what really mattered to me. Tearing off a hunk of my neck would be just as bad for me whether or not he spit the undesirable bits out.

He lowered his head once more and dropped from investigating my collar to my waist and then my sides. With even more vigorous interest, he began probing my pocket. The one with the maple granola bars. A special on an educational channel blipped through my mind about some women and their cross-desert quest for specialty dates. Camels were their companions. My heart squeezed around in my chest like my great-aunt Hazel squeezed a buck—long, hard, and thoroughly.

If only Piper had known to use the granola bars instead of the salad the night before, she might have had better results from her rescue mission. I held stock-still, barely breathing through my nose as the camel’s head jostled around under my armpit. It’s fur pricked through my thin shirt and made me glad I had resisted the urge to dress for service that day. Truth be told, I’d grabbed the least wrinkled things in the closet because my grandparents so hate to be late for church. With the way the camel was behaving, I was glad the shirt wasn’t one of my favorites.

It seemed like it was one of his, though. Snickers and guffaws rippled across the church parking lot. I would have been embarrassed if I wasn’t so concerned about being operated on by a camel not qualified to perform breast reduction surgery. I was in no position to have a bit to spare in that department. Celadon had gotten most of whatever there was to receive genetically when it came to bustlines. Which was horribly unfair as far as Celadon was concerned since she was very clear about how vulgar it was to run around looking like a dairy maid.

I, on the other hand, was grateful for whatever little anything I could pile in and push up, and there was no way I was about to surrender a gram of it to a wayward camel. Just as I was reaching up to risk my hand being bitten off instead, a whole other sort of Graham entered the picture.

My hand froze in midair as I realized who the green-garbed person speaking to Grampa had been. I should have recognized the outline of his uniform hat, a rather dashing and distinct piece of headgear, I had to admit. But the camel had filled the foreground of my thoughts and it hadn’t seemed to bear scrutiny. Now I could see him inching closer, a pole with a loop on the end of it in his hands. The camel stuck out its tongue and lapped the front of my shirt, wetting it sufficiently to render it transparent. It was more like some sort of exotic dance show at a strip club involving animals than it was an assembly of worshippers. And the camel didn’t even have the decency to stuff my clothing with dollar bills for my trouble.

Graham worked his way to the left of the camel and Grampa moved in on the right. Grampa made a clucking sound, similar to the ones he makes to call horses. The camel made a noise back, best described as a cross between a rumbling stomach and a roaring belch. I felt my knees get all wonky, and I started to slide down the wall. The camel chomped down on my pocket, favored bits of me protected only by granola bars, and ripped it from the shirt. In a flash, Graham slipped the loop at the end of his pole over the camel’s head and then did something that cinched it closed.

The camel whipped its head toward Grampa, pulling Graham nearly off his feet. It made more gurgling growling sounds then spluttered blubbering spittle into my favorite geezer’s bearded face. I dove downward and scooped up the spilled granola bars. I waved them frantically above my head, hoping the smell would get through to the angry beast. I got my wish and then some. The camel whipped its head back toward me, its flapping lips dripping onto my head. I tossed the granola bars toward Graham. The camel rushed after them, dragging Graham and his looped pole after him.

I pushed through the crowd and raced back inside. The rest of the granola bars sat mostly untouched. I grabbed them then snatched a tray piled high with cereal treats for good measure. If camels liked one grain-based breakfast item, maybe they would enjoy another. I raced back out the door and skidded to a stop in front of the camel, who was trying to blow a bit of napkin from his gluey bottom lip. I wish I could say I had it in me to reach up and help him, but I didn’t. The best I could manage was to toss another bar on the ground in front of him.