The Night of the Moonbow

by Thomas Tryon

  On the platform, still shaking with fright and mortification, Leo turned to face the rest of his tormentors. It was clear to them all - to Leo himself - that he had no intention of jumping, and so must take his punishment. They stepped aside as he moved toward the ladder and began his slow descent into shame. At the bottom, he dived from the raft and stroked for the dock, where he could see Reece hopping down from his perch, while excited campers, shouting and capering with gleeful anticipation, came skittering from everywhere: Wacko was going to get the paddle!

  There was no rhyme and little reason to the business, organized as it was according to long-standing custom. The paddle, broad and thick as a breadboard, was borne aloft from the hook where it was hung, and Leo was bent over the paddling barrel and held in place. Then Moriarity - first in line by virtue of the indignity he had suffered - stepped up, spit on his palms, drew the board back, and swung.

  As the blow fell, hard, Leo jerked forward on the barrel and a cheer went up. Then Reece took the paddle and handed it to the next boy, itching to have a go. Before long what had begun as a sporting affair, the traditional camp chastisement for lack of nerve, had turned into an ugly demonstration of camper brutality. Pain, humiliation, and shame: Leo suffered all without a whimper. How could he whimper? He had passed out.

  “Hey, you guys - he’s out cold!” cried Ratner, looking down at the limp form drooped over the barrel. As the clamor slowly died and a guilt-laden silence ensued, Fritz Auerbach pushed his way through the gathering to emerge at the head of the line. “All right, that’s enough!” he said, grabbing the paddle from Bosey.

  “Hey, what’s the big idea?” Reece demanded, stepping up. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

  “Putting a stop to this sadistic business, what does it look like?” He shoved Reece aside, then leaned over and lifted

  Leo up in his arms. “This boy is hurt. I will take him to the infirmary. Get out of my way, please.”

  Reece wasn’t about to let him pass. “That kid’s not really hurt. Why don’t you just stay out of this, Fritzy? I’m in charge here.”

  Fritz stared. “What kind of man are you, to allow such a thing to be done to a boy? What kind of place is Friend-Indeed that it would permit this to happen?” Reece was at his most condescending. “Look, Fritzy, you’re new around here. This happens to be a camp tradition, it’s been going on for years - right, boys?” He glanced around, from Phil to Moriarity to Ratner to Bosey, all of whom exchanged sheepish looks but had nothing to say.

  “Then it is time it stopped,” Fritz replied forcefully. “Such childishness. Now, step aside, please; otherwise I shall be obliged to knock you down.”

  Everybody stood silently by while Reece reconsidered matters, and when he finally gave way Fritz pushed past him, carrying Leo’s limp form from the dock, passing along the waterfront in the direction of Three Corner Cove.

  By siesta time, after lunch, the waterfront lay tranquil and serene, the lake lapping the shore with its meekest touch, boats docked, canoes beached in squads, the punishment paddle hung on its hook. It was as if the camp could stand only so much of violent activity, of clamorous voices and hypertense confusion, before it must retreat again into order and serenity, to catch its breath before the next upheaval should occur.

  Whatever Fritz Auerbach (a foreigner, after all, and not privy to Moonbow traditions) might have to say about it, the paddling of a camper who had failed to go off the tower after having climbed it was a tradition, and even though everyone had witnessed the way Moriarity had boldly goosed Leo up the ladder, that fact was already being overlooked. Notice had been served that this kind of “differentness” would not be tolerated at Camp Friend-Indeed, and Wacko Wackeem had better shape up or else. Nor did the fact that Fritz had opposed Reece in the matter do Fritz’s own case much good. Taking public issue with the counselor universally regarded as the best Friend-Indeed ever had, had only served to place him together with Leo in the same camp, so to speak.

  Fritz did have two allies in the matter, however. At the infirmary, to which he had conveyed the sufferer, Wanda Koslowski, the camp nurse, had been outraged. Leo’s “baganza,” she declared, looked like “an Italian sunset,” and in short order she had popped him into a fresh, clean-smelling white bed, applied soothing lotions, given him a pill to relieve the pain, and positioned a pillow to jack up his hips and an ice pack to cradle his backside. Indeed, so tenderly did she treat his wounded posterior (without further injury to his dignity) that the grateful beneficiary of her ministrations decided he was considerably better off than Emerson Bean, who had acquired a case of poison ivy during the Snipe Hunt and lay four feet away in the adjoining bed, looking wretched and uncomfortable under a chalky pink coating of calamine lotion.

  Fritz’s other ally was Doc Oliphant, whose arrival at the infirmary just as Leo was getting settled required that the ice pack be removed. “Good God, man,” he muttered to Fritz, “what have they done to this boy?”

  “Paddled him,” came Fritz’s flat reponse.

  “I should say they did! Blast those savages!” snapped the doctor. “Why didn’t Rex stop it?”

  “Rex wasn’t there, I’m afraid. He had to take a phone call.”

  “Then who had charge of the waterfront?”

  "Reece Hartsig was on the bench. He said it was the tradition.”

  “So it is.” The doctor sighed. “But they went too far this time. You’d better keep the lad here overnight, give him a good shoring up, then send him back. Slip him a little mickey, so he’ll rest. Here’s Honey; she’ll cheer him up.” He smiled at his daughter, who had just appeared in the doorway. She kissed him, then came into the room, looking down at Leo, who turned red to his ears at being viewed (by Honey Oliphant!) in such an ignominious position.

  “Goodness,” she said, “that looks awfully sore. And Emerson - you poor thing—”

  She clucked sympathetically and made the sort of mothering sounds that went straight to Leo’s heart. Having Honey Oliphant in the same room with him was almost worth getting paddled for. Of course he couldn’t really talk to her; he wasn’t given to conversing with goddesses, or maybe not a goddess, maybe just an angel with a halo -all that bright-yellow hair that reminded him of Emily’s.

  But, then, he didn’t have to talk, because she did, chattering gaily in a way that made him forget his stinging backside, joking about “Tillie,” the skeleton that stood on a metal stand in the corner - a former camper, she said, who hadn’t got enough to eat during his stay at Friend-Indeed, which reminded Leo that he had missed lunch. Honey smiled. She and her mother were going to make strawberry ice cream for supper and she’d bring over some for the patients. Meanwhile - here was Wanda with the trays.

  After Honey left the room, it seemed to dim, and nothing happened to brighten things much, since next to arrive was Heartless himself. He came striding through the door accompanied by-Fritz and Wanda, who had had their heads together in the dispensary, to “check on his camper.” Having lifted the ice pack and tugged down Leo’s shorts, Reece humorously voiced the opinion that the Italian sunset didn’t look so bad to him. “If you knew you weren’t going to jump,” he said to Leo, “why did you go up the tower in the first place?”

  “He didn’t go up of his own accord,” Fritz put in quickly. “He was forced. You were there - surely you must have seen.”

  Reece’s teeth clenched and the muscles in his jaws pulsed as he half-turned to reply. “This is my camper, Fritz. I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of speaking for himself.”

  “You talk about him as if he were a possession, something you own.”

  Reece gave an angry snort. “He’s a Jeremian, isn’t he? He may not be the best one, but he’s still a Jeremian. Which makes him my camper.”

  “Not now it doesn’t. Since he’s in this infirmary, if he’s anybody’s camper he’s Wanda’s. Besides, if you’d been looking after him properly, he wouldn’t be here.” He frowned. Reece was staring at him from under a co
cked eyebrow. “Excuse me, please,” Fritz said stiffly, “but is there something about me that offends you?”

  Reece’s eye was on Fritz’s chest: the Star of David he always wore on a chain around his neck was hanging outside his shirt.

  “What do you wear that thing for, anyway?”

  Fritz glanced down. “Why should I not?”

  Reece scowled. “Maybe you didn’t know it, Fritzy, but we don’t wear stuff like that around here.”

  “You do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean the cedar heart you wear - and your Seneca knot as well.”

  Reece’s hand went to his throat. “That’s different. The Seneca knot’s a badge of honor. Members of the Lodge have always worn it. It’s something we believe in.”

  “As I believe in this,” Fritz replied calmly. “Really, I don’t see that there’s a great deal of difference. Is there?” Reece gave him an exasperated look. “Okay, Katzenjammer, don’t make a big thing out of it.”

  Fritz’s eyes flashed. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like it. It is the name of a pack of low German comics in the funny papers, and, to tell the truth, I don’t happen to think Germans are very funny folk these days.” He turned to Wanda. “Now, if you will all excuse me, I have things to do. I’m sure Leo is in good hands with you.”

  With a nod to Leo and Emerson, he left the room. “Gee,” Reece said to Wanda, “I didn’t know your boyfriend was such a prima donna.” He gave Leo’s elastic waistband a brisk snap, then dropped the ice pack on the table with a bang. “Okay, kiddo, hop out of there, we’ve got things to do.”

  Wanda was outraged. “He’ll do nothing of the sort! He’s staying right where he is - in bed!”

  Reece showed surprise. “You don’t mean to say you intend to keep him lolling around just because he got a couple of bruises on his fanny?”

  “It’s not just a couple of bruises, he can barely move. Besides, he’s under doctor’s orders. He’s to stay here overnight at least.”

  Reece looked genuinely puzzled. “Gee, Goldilocks, I just don’t get it. A guy gets a little paddling and you want to treat him like he’s the Dying Gladiator or something. That stuff doesn’t go in Jeremiah. I won’t stand for any of my boys malingering.”

  “He’s not malingering,” Wanda retorted. “He has quite a painful hematoma. A boy can’t take a beating like that and then be expected to go hopping around on both feet. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Why don’t you just scram on out of here—”

  “Now don’t get yourself in an uproar, nursie,” Reece began playfully, but nursie wasn’t in a playful mood.

  “Oh, get out,” she growled, and, pushing him from the sickroom, she went to fetch some more cubes for Leo’s ice pack.

  Wanda Koslowski was, Leo and Emerson decided, just what a camp nurse ought to be, with her cap with the two blue stripes on it identifying her as a graduate of Saint Francis Hospital in Hartford, and the crisp crackle of her starched uniform, the slippery slide of her white stockings, the puckery tread of her rubber-soled oxfords on the green linoleum floor. They liked the brisk, efficient way she went about looking after them, and especially the way, when she leaned over to administer the thermometer, the feminine swell of her bosom (embellished with a nurse’s pin of red-blue-and-gold enamel) pressed against them.

  The afternoon wore on, bringing no more visitors, but enlivened by the sight of Honey Oliphant over at Three Corner Cove: she had taken her drum majorette’s baton down to the dock to practice, and was tossing the flashing rod into the air and catching it in- a series of deft moves, never missing once. Togged out in her white shorts and halter, with her lissome figure and her golden hair and dimples smile, Honey was (the boys decided) like a Petty Girl out of Esquire magazine.

  At powwow time Fritz came back with Rex Kenniston, who expressed sympathy and blamed himself for having left his post.

  “I’m okay,” Leo said.

  “Are you kidding?” said Fritz. “I’d like to be in a nice clean bed, such as yours, waited on hand and foot by this Valkyrie.”

  He grinned at Wanda, who gave his hand a push.

  “I brought you this,” Fritz went on, holding up a book he had under his arm. “We’ll speak of it when you’re feeling better. In the meantime, you must get well if you’re going to play for us in the Major Bowes Amateur Night contest.”

  Fritz said he’d stop by again in the morning, Rex said goodnight, and they left. Leo glanced through the book Fritz had left him, a collection of stories, tales in verse, old classics, some of which Emily had once read to Leo, and which he was now free to enjoy again.

  But right now he did not feel like reading. Where were the Jeremians? he wondered. Why hadn’t they dropped by to say hello? Were they mad at him? Finally, not long before bedtime, they appeared, Tiger, Bomber, Dump, Monkey, and Eddie - all but Phil and Wally. Still, five visitors was plenty; the room was small and their talk and laughter reverberated off the tongue-and-groove walls. No direct references were made to Leo’s injuries, and they all seemed bent on speaking of other things: there’d been a baseball game and then powwow, and after supper an archery contest, which Reece naturally expected all Jeremians to attend.

  Then two more visitors arrived: Honey, accompanied by her mother, Maryann, bringing ice cream, dishes, and spoons. Honey had thoughtfully brought along her radio, which she left with the boys so they could listen to “Lights Out.” At nine o’clock, except for the invalids, they all prepared to head back to camp, but Leo asked that Tiger and the Bomber be allowed to stay a little longer - there was something he wanted to tell them. Wanda okayed the request and, when she had dispatched Emerson to the Dewdrop, Leo called the Bomber to come away from the windowsill where he was perched. He wanted to explain, he said, why he’d been unable to jump off the tower.

  “Aw, that’s okay, you don’t have to explain,” the Bomber said. “You’ll get over it anyways. By the end of summer you’ll be doing swan dives off the tower.”

  Leo shook his head. He would never go up that ladder again, would never jump off the platform. The mere thought sickened him. “Acrophobia - that’s what Dr Epstein called it.”

  “Who’s Dr Epstein?” the Bomber said.

  “The doctor at the as-as—” He tried to get the word out but couldn’t.

  “Never mind,” Tiger said. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to ... ”

  “But I do. I wa-want to, only it’s - it’s hard. I n-never told anyone. Dr Epstein was - at the as-asylum.”

  “You mean” - the Bomber showed surprise - “the loony bin?”

  Leo nodded.

  “Why? What happened to you?”

  Leo giggled. “I guess they must have thought I was loony.”

  There was a bit of a laugh over that. Leo was feeling better. '

  “Yeah, but, really, why were you there?” the Bomber insisted.

  Leo shrugged. “I couldn’t remember anything. My mind just went blooey. You know—” he imitated the “cuckoo” in a cuckoo clock. “That’s when they told me my mother wa.s dead.”

  “Jeez,” said a sympathetic Bomber. “How’d that happen, anyways?”

  There was a pause; Tiger watched and listened, saying nothing. Leo interlaced his fingers and rotated his palms together, thinking it out.

  “There was this bridge,” he said at last. “The L Street Bridge. It was old and rusty. They’d been working on it, trying to repair it. The river overflowed, it - it just carried the bridge away.”

  The Bomber leaned on the foot of the bed. “And your folks were on it?”

  “Yes. On it.” Leo was staring out the window. All he had to do was close his eyes and he would see them, Emily and Rudy in the delivery truck, driving onto the bridge - and below, the deep and rushy river swirling and foaming, that boiling witch’s pot - and hear her cries -“Help! Help!” - the words ringing in his ears. “Mother! Mother! MOTHER!
I’ll save you” — but he cannot save her. No one can. The bridge begins to sway, it humps up like as camel’s back and buckles, and all at once goes crashing down into the river, taking with it all the stars in the sky, all of them falling and drowning in the Cat River and—

  Leo had a siege of coughing that he relieved with a full tumbler of water. When he had drained the glass the Bomber took it, and Leo lay back against the pillow. His backside was hurting again; maybe Wanda would give him another one of those little pills.

  Nobody said anything more until Emerson came back from taking his pee and climbed stiffly into bed, pulling up the sheet until only his itchy, swollen, bunny-pink face was visible.

  “Jeez, Emmy,” the Bomber boomed, “you shoulda heard what we just heard.”

  “Yeah? What was it?” Emerson asked.

  “Forget it, Emmy,” Tiger said. “You didn’t miss anything.” He slipped Leo a wink and leaned closer to the bed, his gray eyes shining in the lamplight. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We’d better break it up.”

  A look to the Bomber forced him reluctantly to his feet just as Wanda reappeared to send the two visitors on their way and get her patients ready for bed. Deftly she touched up Emerson’s calamine lotion, then gave Leo a refreshing witch-hazel sponging, afterward folding down his coverlet a precise eight inches and smoothing it with deft, professional strokes. It was like being put to bed by Emily, a little.

  “Do I get another pill?” Leo asked in a small voice, looking as pathetic as he knew how.

  “Is your baganza hurtin’ again?” She brushed his hair back. “I’ll go get one for you,” she said, and went out; her pharmacopoeia was in Doc Oliphant’s keeping at Three Corner Cove.

  No sooner had she gone than Tiger’s crewcut head reappeared at the windowsill. He leaned over and tossed a pillow onto Leo’s bed, following it with a small cardboard box that rattled. The pillow was Albert, the box contained Black Crows.

  “In case you get hungry,” Tiger explained. “Don’t say anything to Wanda.”