by Thomas Tryon
Leo’s look was defiant. “I’m not a coward.”
“You give a darn good imitation of it.” He shook his head with mock despair, then sat down on his footlocker. He kicked off his wet moccasins, dried his feet, and put on a pair of dry socks from the tray inside the locker. Then, shutting the lid, he dragged his boots out from under the cot and went about the elaborate ritual of polishing them. The industry with which he conducted this chore meant that the silence was prolonged. In the stillness the moths resumed their mad romance with the lantern, until one, dusting past Reece’s cheek, caused him to jerk his head back and softly curse. Leo watched as it whirled and made another pass, attracted by the flickering light. This time it brushed against Reece’s head. His hand flashed out and he imprisoned it within the hollow of his fist. Instead of crushing it as another might have done, he plucked it out with care, thumb and forefinger holding it fastidiously by one wing. Then with his other thumb he depressed the lamp lever, raising the glass chimney and freeing the flame. There was a soft hiss, a crackle, and the moth was no more. Reece took his hand away, wiped it on his leg, and lowered the chimney again.
“There’s ‘Poor Butterfly’ for you, kiddo. Go play that on your squawk box,” he said, and resumed wiping oil on the toe of the boot, keeping his eyes on Leo to get his reaction.
Leo said nothing. They looked to him, those cold blue eyes, like eyes seen through a painted mask. Cave cane, they seemed to say: Beware the dog. And then, as his own gaze fell, Reece’s lit upon the postcard lying on the bed, where Moriarity’s destruction of the pillow had exposed it.
“What’s that?” Reece demanded. He bent and picked it up, held it close to the lantern.
“Well, well,” he murmured, “sounds like you two have got real chummy.”
“She was just saying hello. To let me know She was okay. After ...”
“Well? After what?”
“You know. You hurt her.”
Reece glowered. “What’re you talking about?” he snarled, his voice suddenly hoarse.
With a quick, savage movement his arm shot out and his fingers closed around Leo’s throat. Leo felt the breath being choked out of him; he’d never seen Reece so angry. His face was a chalky color, his voice was a hoarse rasp; he yanked Leo up by the hair and shoved his face close. “Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you come off giving me all this crap, anyhow? You ought to learn to keep your trap shut.” His hand squeezed tighter, making Leo wince with pain. “And I’m warning you,” Reece growled between clenched teeth, “if you ever say one thing about that business, if anything ever goes around, you’ll regret it, you hear me? You’ll get it good. Understand?”
Yes. Leo understood: like Stanley Wagner got it good. Reece neatened his clothing and tucked his shirt in carefully. He put on his freshly oiled boots, caught up his coat and tipped his cap onto the back of his head. A hint of a smile hid in the corners of his lips as he gave Leo a last look, then strode out. In the doorway he whirled for a parting word: “I don’t want to see one single feather in here when I come back,” he said. “Not if it takes you the whole dinner hour.”
By dinnertime news of Leo’s transgression had spread through the campground, and as he shuffled to his accustomed place in the dining hall, there was a palpable undercurrent of mischief in the air, a suppressed hint of something about to happen, but when he looked to the Bomber for a clue, all he got back was a blank, studied glance, not a sly wink, not a sign. As for Tiger, though he said nothing, his very silence was a reproach.
During the meal Leo couldn’t eat a morsel and made only token passes at his food. The corned beef was rubbery, just the smell of the boiled cabbage made his gorge rise, and as he picked away at his plate he didn’t have to look up to feel the battery of hostile eyes drilling him from every side; whatever talk there was, he was sure it had to do with Wacko Wackeem, who’d been forced to eat crow in the guise of a blue-lined spiral notebook. Dessert time came, rice pudding, and after Monkey, half of this week’s waiter team, handed around the dishes, everyone seemed suddenly interested as Leo took his spoon and dug into his portion (no matter what, he couldn’t resist pudding -with raisins yet).
The moment Oats’s tin cricket sounded dismissal, the boys sprang up like jack-in-the-boxes, and the table waiters started hustling their trays, eager to get their tables cleared, while the balance of the campers went trooping outside, . heading for the lodge and the scheduled early-evening “rainy-day” activity - a sing-along and a movie. Before l.eo could get away, however, he was accosted by Bullnuts, also waiting on table that week.
“Hey, Wacko, I see you ate all yourpuddin’,” he said. His look was foxy as he hoisted his tray to his shoulder. “Hope you don’t get the collywobbles from it,” he added, before making his way back into the aluminum pandemonium of the kitchen.
Not that Leo really cared much what Bullnuts said. It was the rift that had erupted between him and Tiger: This morning they had been friends, this evening Tiger was making no bones of the fact that he was fed up.
“If you ask me, you’re pretty dumb soifietimes, you know that?” Tiger said now, as they walked down to the lower campus after dinner.
“But those things were private. How was I to know they’d read them?”
“You should have thought, that’s all. Now you’ll never get in the Senecas.”
Leo was stung. For Tiger to take this tack was grossly unfair. “Who cares?” he said with a shrug.
“You cared bad enough two weeks ago.” Tiger sighed. “I guess you were right. Maybe you shouldn’t have come to Moonbow. Maybe Reece was right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe you’re just not good camper fodder after all.” Leo saw red. “I think you’re all a bunch of shits,” he said.
“It goes both ways, kiddo.”
“Okay yourself, kiddo.” Leo lengthened his stride and marched away. Turning in the roadway, he tossed Tiger a smirk. “Okay for you, Brew-ster-r-r,” he said.
Reece, who had been walking behind them, and had overheard the quarrel, caught up for a private word with Tiger. “Ya done good, camper,” Leo heard him say. “Now you’re being the guy we all know. You just got off track, that’s all.” And when they got to the lower playing field, Reece tossed an arm around Tiger’s shoulders, led him over to the Green Hornet, and the pair sped away, radio blaring.
By the time Leo reached the cabin, he wasn’t feeling vet well; swallowing all that paper was making his stomach ,u i up. He hiked it over to the infirmary, where Wanda goi out the bottle of rhubarb-and-soda, her universal panacea for stomach woes, administered Leo a healthy dose, and sent him on his way, but when he got back to Jeremiah he felt sicker than before, and he fell into his bunk, where he lay, hot and panting and nauseated. From the lodge he could hear them singing “Down by the Station.” He wanted to go pee, then brush his teeth and go to sleep. He did none of those things. Instead, he kicked off his sneakers, took his flashlight, and began to read.
But he didn’t feel like reading either, and he shut his book and stared out at the deserted playing field. His stomach was making angry rumbles, and the rhubarb-and-soda made him burp.
He could hear the faint pitterpat of water dripping from tree leaves onto the roof; it had a nice cozy sound, reminding him of rainy afternoons with Emily in the house on Gallop Street. He must have dozed, because before he knew it he heard the sounds of the Jeremians trooping up the cabin steps. He doused his lighted flashlight quickly and feigned sleep as they came trooping in, talking and laughing as if he weren’t there, then out again to the wash rack and Old Faithful to brush their teeth, and back in, to settle into their bunks with the usual last-minute quota of gags and giggles.
He hated lying there in bed, awake but unable to read, and in desperation began to recite “Hiawatha” to himself; he had reached the stanza that began
As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is woman . . .
when the first spasm hit him, cau
sing his body to contort as if it had been lashed. Then a second cramp seized him. When it passed, finally, he lay there in his bunk, trying to catch his breath. Sweat poured off him; his pajamas were soaked. Something more must be wrong than a few pieces of paper. When the next cramp came it made him sit bolt upright, clutching his belly. Stifling a moan, he felt an interior gurgling under his palms as his stomach lifted and heaved. He knew he had to get to the Dewdrop, but couldn’t make a move. Squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, he forced himself to hold on tight until the pain passed; then he grabbed his flashlight and slipped from his bunk, dropping out the rear of the cabin onto the wet ground. The earth was drenched, each step sucked at his foot as, stepping over puddles, half bent over and clutching his midsection, he headed off in the direction of the latrine.
When he got there he pulled up short, pushed open the door and hurried in, loosening the string of his pajama bottoms as he grabbed the first hole. Blessed relief flooded through him as he relaxed and voided, and the gnawing seizure that had tied his innards in knots slackened its grip. Then, through the window, he heard the call of a bird - what kind of bird he could not tell, but obviously one of the nocturnal sort. To this sound was quickly joined a second, as if in formal reply to the first-its mate, perhaps? The duet was joined by yet a third call, nearer, Leo thought, lower-pitched, its tone eerie and off-putting - an ominous note, followed by a protracted silence. He became suddenly alert, frowning as he forced his ears to pick out small, meaningful sounds, but for a time all remained quiet. No, no - wait - there! Something was moving outside, a telltale twig had cracked. Then, in one mind-shattering moment, a heavy object flew through the window and struck the kerosene lamp, sending it crashing to the floor, where, extinguished, it rolled away into the dark. Leo froze, waiting for more to follow, but nothing was forthcoming; he groped for his flashlight and snapped it on. A large stone lay in the corner. He shut off the light again and listened. Through the dark oblong of the window he picked out the faintest of sounds, as though several creatures, human or other wise, had convened out there in the surrounding darkness. The next thing he knew, the walls of the building were being subjected to a series of violent blows, seemingly on all sides simultaneously, a hammering so thunderous that to protect his ears he pressed his palms over them.
When it Stopped, he got to his feet, groping for his pajama bottoms and yanking them up to his waist; but before his fingers could locate the ends of the cord, the floor tilted and the building began to sway. Back and forth it pitched, its abrupt, rocking movement catching him off guard and propelling him from the buckets to the opposite wall, where he smacked his forehead against a two-by-four. With the sickening upheaval the noisy tattoo along the building’s outer surfaces resumed, accompanied by voices - gleeful laughter. The rocking intensified. The building was being torn loose from its moorings! Defenseless, Leo felt his body tumbling head over heels as the Dewdrop Inn toppled on its back. He came to rest sprawled across the holes and, looking up, saw the door drop open above him. It missed his head by inches, swinging crazily on its hinges.
For a moment he lay where he’d been flung, dizzily trying to get his breath, his ear catching the fragments of laughter as they fitfully exploded and were suppressed in the darkness outside. Silence fell again. He could taste blood where his lips had been cut; more was running into his eye from a gash in his scalp. Beyond the oblong shape created by the open door, he glimpsed bits of tree foliage silhouetted against the sky. He got up and slowly, painfully made a futile attempt to reach the open doorway; then, getting another idea, he made his way to the window, which, because of the overturning, now lay close to the ground, and crawled free. Outside, he stumbled to his feet .ind looked around him. The Dewdrop lay on its back like some gross, wounded beast, its underpinnings naked to view; in the dark pit he could see patches of white where I lie usual ration of quicklime had been applied. The stench made him feel nearly as sick as he’d been before, and he covered his mouth to keep from vomiting.
Suddenly a figure in a slicker and sou’wester hat lurched into the pathway; it was Bullnuts Moriarity. He held up a lantern; in its light two shadows appeared behind him, advancing toward Leo, who now drew back: Bullnuts he could probably elude; a gang would make things truly difficult. He was filled with relief as he recognized the voices of Fritz and Wanda, who were coming along the path.
“What is going on here?” Fritz demanded sternly, shining a flashlight around. He frowned as he spotted Moriarity. “Claude, what are you up to? What was all that racket?” Finally he saw Leo, then the overturned latrine. “Leo, are you all right?” he asked, stepping toward him. “What’s been going on around here?” He shone his light into the pit.
“Aw, gee, willya lookit that!” Moriarity pretended to have only just noticed the overturned latrine. “My golly - whoever do you think done that? Turned over the Dewdrop Inn.”
The wet sputter of giggles issued from the bushes on either side of the path.
“All right, you fellows,” Fritz called at the sound. “Whoever you are, you can come out now, the fun’s over.”
A sudden flurry of activity erupted among the shrubbery as dark forms broke from their hiding places and scuttled to safety in the encompassing dark.
Fritz now shone his light on Leo. “I think we’d better get you over to the infirmary and let Wanda have a look at that head. As for you, Claude,” he went on, turning to Moriarity, “you may consider yourself on report.”
“For what?” Claude bellowed. “I didn’t do it all on my own. Those guys were in on it too.”
“Rinkydinks, I suppose? Kindly give me their names and I’ll see they’re all properly dealt with.”
“You got to be kiddin’.”
“Try me and see, Claude. Now I suggest everybody get to bed. Leo, that means you, too.”
As Fritz turned to go, Moriarity made a sudden movement forward. But Leo was swift enough to dodge him, leaving a space for Bullnuts to plunge headlong through, his momentum carrying him over the edge of the latrine pit. No one was more surprised than Claude to find himself hurtling through space, lantern and all, to hit the bottom with a wet, splishing sound.
The boys who had gone to bed during a final deluge of rain awoke to a bright world again, and although the entire camp was so waterlogged that it would take days for the place to dry out (from the red-painted designations on his dock pilings Doc Oliphant was able to demonstrate that the lake had risen two and a half inches in the six days of rain), with the return of good weather everyone at Moonbow cheered and roused himself and felt renewed, as if before the season’s end Friend-Indeed had been granted a second lease on life. Like schoolboys too long cooped up in the classroom, the campers burst forth into the sunshine, giving full vent to their natural ebullience; spreading themselves across the breast of the lake in flotillas of watercraft, carousing north and south along the line-path, shinnying up the trees in Shinny Park, and catching snakes and firing slingshots at anything that moved. Every clothesline from Virtue to Endeavor sagged with damp shorts and polo shirts, and moldy bathing towels and bedding were spread out for airing on every available cabin roof and shutter.
To all outward appearances the world at Moonbow Lake was green and gold again. But not for Wacko Wackeem, whose stock at Friend-Indeed had plummeted since the exposure of the contents of his private journal. With his incriminating comments set down in Parker’s blue-black Quink, how could he afterward deny what he had written? Or explain that his comments were just private jokes, not to be taken seriously - that Reece Hartsig didn’t really look like a cigar-store Indian in his Moonbow Warrior’s garb, that Claude Moriarity didn’t really bear a resemblence in certain particulars to Farmer Kelsoe’s prize bull, or that Pa Starbuck wasn’t the Bible-thumping Billy Sunday of Moonbow Lake.
And the boys had had their private revenge. Knocking latrines off their beam ends was old-timers’ sport at Moonbow - mischievous campers had been pulling such stunts since the days when Rolfe Har
tsig was an adolescent bunkee and Jeremiah was only a tent - but it was not exactly customary for such barrelhousing to occur when a person happened to be inside the Dewdrop. Nonetheless, Pa had chalked the business up as another prank - and if it was more than that, well, Leo had trespassed, hadn’t he? - and let it go at that. As for Moriarity’s tumble into the pit, even Pa smiled at the reports, while Bullnuts went around camp loudly demanding reprisals. Thus far, however, he had done nothing along those lines, and for the time being the joke remained on him.
If only, Leo thought, that could have been the end of it. But now, from every quarter, starting in Cabin 7 and extending up and down the line-path to the outer reaches of High Endeavor and Virtue, he felt the resentment of his fellow campers. There was a general feeling that he had “got away with it,” that peeing on the Seneca campfire was a violation on a par with dancing around in the Buffalo Bill War Bonnet, and fully deserving of punishment. But the Sachems’ Council, convening to adjudicate the matter, stood divided on the issue, with a few, after an impassioned argument by Fritz Auerbach, maintaining that the real “crime” had been reading Leo’s diary. Since the Sachems’ decisions were required to be unanimous, no action was taken, as a result of which, two things happened: one, after an acrimonious row, Reece Hartsig resigned from the council, and, two, the Mingoes, whose clandestine meetings had been removed to the Rinkydinks’ former bailiwick in the cellar of the Steelyard house, let it be known that they themselves would see to the matter.
When formal notice of the council’s decision (or lack thereof) had been posted on the bulletin board outside the lodge for all to see, the paper was torn down in the dead of night, and in its stead a crudely lettered poster appeared:
WANTED: WACKO WACKEEM
Dead or Alive (Preferably dead)
For Crimes Against the Camp
Also wanted:
Fritzy Katzenjammer alias THE NOSE
Quickly removed, the placard was (as usual) ascribed to camper hijinks, with Pa listening to Fritz’s objections with half an ear, then dragging out his “Boys will be boys” wheeze and declaring he was sure the whole thing was only meant as a joke. During his pre-dinner remarks after grace, he reminded the boys that this was Camp “Friend-Indeed,” and that “Actions speak louder than words.”