of exploding rocks. “We need to see that,” Dick Teig enthused. “Which way to the tunnel?”
“You’re not going through any tunnel,” Helen piped up. “What if it collapses? You’d die under all that rubble, and you can just imagine the talk at the local hospital when they see that hole in your boxers. I will not be subjected to that kind of embarrassment.”
“You’re not going either,” Grace Stolee carped at her husband. “It sounds far too dangerous.”
“The hell it does!” Dick Teig thundered. “I’ve got news for you, girls. We didn’t come all the way to Australia to be dictated to by a couple of OVERbearing, OVERprotective, OVERwrought fraidy cats!”
I held my breath, hoping he’d know enough to stop before he hit overweight and over-the-hill. That could get really ugly.
“Yah!” chimed Dick Stolee.
“You’re not our mothers, so quit acting like them!”
“Yah!” said Dick Stolee
“Dick and me are gonna explore that tunnel, Helen, and if I hear one more word from you, so help me, I’ll—”
Helen fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You’ll what?”
Osmond raised his hand. “Would it be all right if I go with you?”
“Me, too,” said Margi. “I’ve never been in a rock tunnel before, but I rode across a covered bridge once.”
“NUMBEH FIFTEEN,” a voice announced over a loudspeaker. “PICK UP YOUR ORDEH. NUMBEH FIFTEEN.”
Alice dashed to the café while the Dicks and their wives continued their verbal tug-of-war. Is this what happened to marriages that lasted for decades? Did they become little more than power struggles between people who were starting to look alike?
“I’m going!” huffed Dick Teig.
“Go ahead!” Helen yelled. “But don’t bother coming back!”
“Don’t start, Helen!”
“Or else what?”
Oh, God. I let fly a whistle that produced group winces and instant silence from everyone except Osmond, who slapped his hands over his double hearing aids. “Let me know when she’s done,” he complained. “I can’t handle the feedback.”
“Okay, guys,” I said in a no-nonsense voice, “we’re getting nowhere fast. Let Henry finish telling you about the tunnel before you grab your Indiana Jones hats.” Grudging nods. Twitching. Pursed lips.
“It’s not the easiest path to navigate,” Henry continued. “The ground’s uneven with some unexpictedly steep dips, and there’s a couple of places where the space narrows to liss than a meter across. If you’re claustrophobic, I wouldn’t try it, but if you’re careful, and watch your footing, and start out before the tide changes, everything should be apples.”
“That clinches it,” said Dick Teig. “I’m going.”
“You are not!” Helen shouted.
“NUMBEHS SIXTEEN AND SIVENTEEN, YOUR ORDEHS ARE RIDDY. NUMBEHS SIXTEEN AND SIVENTEEN. PLEASE PICK UP YOUR ORDEHS.”
“This discussion isn’t over, Helen,” said Dick as he stormed toward the café.
“Yah,” said Dick Stolee, wagging his finger at Grace as he followed behind Dick. “What he said.”
Henry turned away from the group and said to me in an undertone, “There could be a serious problem with the two hifty blokes, Imily.”
“Don’t pay any attention to them. They’re always having disagreements with their wives. It’s part of their schtick.”
“I mean with the tunnel. I can’t quite remimber how narrow the passage gits, if you catch my drift. You might want to chick it out before they git into something they can’t git out of.”
Oh, this was nice. Get the Dicks all hypered into a frenzy, then pull the rug out from beneath them. “Where’s the entrance?”
He gestured toward the far end of the rockribbed headland. “It’s about thirty-five meters thataway. There’s a couple of markers that’ll git you close, then you just have to keep your eyes peeled.”
Alice returned with a platter of salad greens, chunks of white cheese, olives, lemon wedges, fancy pineapple slices, and a spiny crustacean that looked like a cross between a Maine lobster and Arnold Schwarzeneger’s Predator. “Euwww.” Bernice pulled a face. “If you’re planning to eat that thing, I don’t wanna watch.”
Lucille regarded it, aghast. “Please tell me that’s not the crayfish special.”
“Why is it in a shell?” asked Helen. “Aren’t crayfish like catfish? Catfish don’t have shells.”
“It has eyes,” Grace whispered in disgust. “There’s no way I’m eating eyeballs for lunch.”
“If that’s crayfish, I’m changing my order.” Bernice stood up.
“I don’t understand,” Helen muttered in confusion. “Whitefish don’t have shells. Bluefish don’t have shells.”
I motioned Bernice to sit back down. “You can’t change your order. It’s too difficult to make substitutions when they’re serving large tour groups.”
Alice rapped a knuckle on the creature’s shell. “Are we supposed to eat the whole thing? I’m not sure my dental insurance will cover