“Hey, swine! You, Romeo, better be careful. One of ‘ems gonna get a big belly.”
“Shut up, you don’t know anything.”
“Well, maybe your cock will get big, oozing, bumps.”
There was a thud, and the door swung hard. Sweat filled the air and something else, urine as someone screamed about “pissing on him” and “cutting off his dick.”
I jerked awake in terror. Were they still there? Who was Romeo? What was he up to? I’d do more of the basket another day. Grandma wasn’t just saying “hello” from the past. Maine and this camp were telling me a whole story.
My mind went to the bone Katie and I had found the other day. The one I had promised not to touch…yet. What did a “cock” bone look like? Katie would have to look up info in her father’s medical books.
Chapter Six
BASKET MAKING
Next morning, the weather was perfect – not too chilly, but still that crisp bite that made me pull my nose back under the covers of that half-itchy, over washed plaid wool blanket. My ears were awake enough to hear my father puttering around the room. He was trying to make a fire in the stove, to tempt me out of bed. I breathed in the sulphur, heard the whoosh of the first papers taking flame, and, soon enough, the spitting and crackling as the sappy kindling caught. I waited for that familiar incense-like fragrance, always powerful enough to take me over, body and soul. This was my church-like moment.
I played my morning ritual with my dad.
“Is it warm yet, Dad?” I said.
“A steam bath,” he answered.
“No, really?”
“So warm I can’t put my socks on yet.”
“Is the bathroom empty?”
“Your mother’s still snoring. It’s all yours.”
I loved the ritual, always the same. I think my father never got tired of playing pioneer, making the homestead ready and safe for his ‘young’uns and missus.’ Sometimes, just to get me up laughing, he’d recite an old limerick or ballad. He’d put on this big actor-voice and start in:
“…a bunch of the boys were whooping it up…”
Eventually overcome by the woodsy warmth, the laughter, and my father’s fresh smell in his athletic shirt, I’d swing my feet onto the chilly floorboards and start my day.
I managed to sneak out of the cabin with a good chunk of time before breakfast. The basket was where I’d left it in the latrine. The needles were pliable and those I had already formed still held their shape. I threaded in and out and over and between rows and the contrast of the black thread and browned needles was quite attractive. I knew Katie would love it. Now I just needed to let it dry in the sun. The latrine would be a perfect place to dry it, but Katie and I were going to go there after breakfast to talk about the ‘bumps and bellies’ and ‘dick bones’ I had heard about in my dream the day before.
If I could put it up on top of the light fixture, Katie would never notice it. My feet almost slid out from under me because of the dust. I finally managed to slip it above the fixture, but something fell. It fluttered to the ground, folded so small.
Shoot! By now, I didn’t have a whole lot of time before breakfast, but I just had to open it up. The paper was yellowed and brittle. Several pieces crumbled and fell apart as I tried to unfold it. The bits of the note on the floor seemed more like a jigsaw puzzle. What I could piece together left me pretty stumped.
I was able to decipher, “He did it” and “We threat to cu off his dic.” I found some shreds with parts of names, but I couldn’t rearrange them to spell out a whole name, just “Ro” and “Bi” or “Bu.”
I was totally frustrated. The first gong for breakfast rang out through the pines. Without thinking, I shoved the remaining parts of the parchment-like note into my pocket. When I pulled my hand out, I left behind a wad of confetti.
Chapter Seven
BONES
On my way back from the latrine, I slowed my pace at the last minute as I approached my parents, who were entering the dining hall for breakfast. We ate mostly in silence, blueberries in cream, pork sausages, and eggs. Across the room, Katie motioned to me, miming as though she were flipping through pages. I figured Katie had had the chance to search through her father’s med books. I couldn’t wait for an update on cocks and chicks.
Katie and I both rushed to the latrine to go over the newest clues. I told Katie about all the strange things I had heard in my dream. ‘Big bellies’ meant pregnant, obviously. The ‘bumps’ were sores on the genitals, a word we didn’t usually include in our vocabularies. We read what Katie had copied from her father’s book. Apparently she’d found it under “penis – diseases and disorders.” Based on what Katie had copied from the book, we figured the big guy from the latrine dream had put his thing in somebody (or bodies). He’d gotten some kind of disease, and the girl had gotten pregnant. So who was going to have a baby?
I showed Katie the tattered bits of the note that fell from the light fixture. We couldn’t figure out any more than ‘He did it’ and the threat to cut off ‘his dick.’ What about ‘dick bones,’ I wondered.
“What were you doing on top of the light fixture, anyway?”
I made a stupid face to avoid answering.
“A feeling, a dream?” Katie asked. “I’m definitely going to talk to my father tomorrow. I’ll say that sometimes it’s like God talks to you. You know, Saint Teresa talked to God. Look at Joan of Arc.”
“What am I looking at?” I played along.
“She wasn’t lady-like either. Listen. Teresa got blood on her hands.”
“She was a killer?” I joked.
“No, you’re not listening. She had the wounds like Jesus.” Katie had become quite serious. I almost felt as if she were going to search my skin for blood.
“The stigmata. See, I listen to the nuns, too,” I said.
“Remember the blood on your chest when you had the shirt on?”
“Now I’ve got the stigmata?” This was actually kind of fun. I then turned serious. “Hey, we’ve got to write up what we’ve got so far, and what do you think, take a peek at the bone?”
Katie nodded her agreement, then ran her fingers through her curled bangs, and flipped her shirt collar up. She looked tougher than she was, and I found it adorable.
We walked in silence to the crafts cabin and stared down at the drawer where we’d hidden the bone before gently easing it open. Katie unwrapped the bone. We took a step back as if before a museum piece. Perhaps, in a way, it was.
The cloth was a small, thin square, plaid, almost shredded. The bone offered us no information, other than its size, six inches. It had a jagged end, and a greyish, whitish color with thread-like black lines. Katie hesitated, tilting her head, eyes mere slits.
“Pin, I’ve really gotta tell my father. You know, during the trip. Can I?” Katie was almost begging.
“Um. Hold on. Let me think.” I stroked my chin almost raw, blew out a huge sigh, and said, “Kat, I really do trust you. You know I do—”
“But…?” Katie pursed her lips.
“Your dad, his name is all over this blooming camp.”
“Crap, Pina, he is a doctor! He would know what the bone is.”
“Okay! Okay! But the bone stays here.” I shrugged and started to turn away.
Katie nodded and put her hand on my shoulder to reassure me.
“It’ll be okay. You’ll see. Now let’s go get the log.”
Her touch made everything okay, much more than okay. I’d go anywhere with her!
We retrieved our logbook from its cache. It now contained information:
-Roger, who was physically abusing Billy
-Wolfgang, who wanted Billy to tell someone in charge
-Romeo, who got girls pregnant, had ‘bumps’ on penis
-The homosexual Camp Director
-Ron (probably Katie’s dad) and Regina, who were boyfriend/girlfriend
-A group met to do ‘it,’ and they made a ‘square’
-Ha
rd evidence: the B.C. knife, the shirt, and now the bone.
We wondered about the possible pregnancy. I asked Katie if her father had gotten anyone pregnant.
Katie’s filthy look told me she didn’t want to go there, but she still said, “No. Mrs. Robinson, the owner of the hamburger joint, is always saying my dad was a great camper, ‘sweet’ on someone but not on ‘townies.’” Katie said.
“Another camper?” I asked. Katie poked me for teasing that her dad liked a boy.
“Doofus,” she said, “You know it was Regina, and the Ron had to be my father.”
A bit cranky, I cut to, “Don’t leave before breakfast? I have a surprise for you.”
“I’m going to sneak into your cabin tonight and find it.”
“I’ll lock the screen door; besides, it’s not there.”
“Now I know what you were up to with the bathroom light.”
“You rat!” I said.
“I love you too.”
“You know I do, but you’re still a creep.” I was giggling again.
Chapter Eight
EVE OF BIRTHDAY DREAM
My old bed, with its lumps and creaky, uneven springs felt cozy that night. I fell right to sleep, even though I was excited about giving Katie her basket the next morning. I wished my parents would lower the radio playing that corny Pat Boone song. The walls in our cabin were paper-thin, the cheap stuff. The bathroom wedged in between our rooms also allowed little soundproofing. I rolled over and hugged the pillow. It smelled of pine and fire, and it felt good against my cheek. I started to drift, losing sensation. I lay suspended, as though on a ship. Adrift.
I thought I heard an engine, like nuts and bolts grinding against each other, gears getting their teeth into each other. There was a banging, like a screen door and a breaking, crunching sound. Was it Katie, sneaking in like she said she would? Or someone else?
Rough hands grabbed me and tore me from my cradled spot. I struggled to free my arms and managed to get one hand got loose. Something jerked me, wrenching my whole body. It had me now by my hair. I hit the floor hard, and I felt hands under my arms as I got dragged and burned along splintery floorboards. Then nothing. I couldn’t breathe. I was screaming and crying, but it all came out choked.
Suddenly, I was outside. Pressed against a tree. My hands, clawing and cutting, got roped tight; my flesh burned against the rough bonds. I couldn’t move. My head spun. I was clammy. My body was at once lost and alive with a screaming, tearing pain.
I thought I had died, but I heard panting and something said, “I’ve wanted to get you.”
I felt broken, and this beast was saying he had gotten me. My hands came loose then, and I was tearing at the gag in my mouth. Shrieking. Flailing. I got the beast’s eye in my claws and ripped. I reached up to dig my nails in again. This time I felt nothing but dirty, brittle paper.
I opened my eyes to see wallpaper and sheets all knotted around me. I was back in my own cabin, breathing hard. Luckily, my parents were loud snorers; they had heard nothing.
I hurt all over, and I was petrified. What, dear God…what just happened? I got up and crawled to the bathroom to pee.
There was blood on my thigh.
It was almost dawn. I needed to swim – to feel the cool water around me – but I wasn’t sure if I even could in this condition. I had never had a dream like that. My legs were like Jello when you suck it and it turns liquid. I felt like I had a big hole in me. I wanted to puke. Had to get down to the water.
Slowly, I walked and sat and sat and walked some more. My body ached so much. I needed the breaks to rest and gather up my will again. I reached the beach and slipped into the ice-cold water. It lapped over my shoulders and burned my thighs. I let myself be pulled in, dunked my head, and took a few strokes. I could swim. I felt clean again, finally. When I emerged from the water, I wrapped myself in two towels and changed out of my suit, pulling on my heavy crew sweater. Bundled and cleansed, I made my way to the latrine.
Entering the latrine felt the same as before; the boxed-in air was still hot from yesterday’s sun even though the floorboards had started to cool. I knew this well. Somehow, it soothed me. I sat up against the wall for a while. I closed my eyes.
More Billys, more farts, and “your mother wears Army boots.”
The old heart and Ron and Regina were yet in another spot. No, the Ron was crossed out, and I could barely make out Butch.
I didn’t know…I didn’t know anything. I felt like I was slipping out of myself again, and after the terror of my dream, I did not want to go. I tried to latch onto something I knew, anything. I had made a basket. That was real. Katie was real, it was her birthday, and I had to give her her birthday present. I hauled myself to my feet and stumbled to the light fixture. Yes, the basket was there. I got it down and decided not to tell Katie anything about my dream.
Somehow, I made it back to the dining hall area, clothes and all. I had to be okay for Katie, for her birthday. If I told her, I knew she’d want to take care of me, and it was supposed to be her day.
My steps were mincing in the slippery pine needles in front of the dining hall; I didn’t dare jerk my body too much. I still hurt. I practiced my smile before coming any closer to Katie, who was slouching in an Adirondack chair, waiting for her folks. I slipped up behind her.
“Happy birthday!” I held out the pine basket for Katie to see. I managed a slow smile.
“Oh gosh, Pina, it’s gorgeous! I love it. I love it. Come here, I’m gonna give you a big, slurpy kiss.” Katie pulled me closer.
I felt her big, warm hands on me. This was the first, safe touch since my dream. I burst out in tears and sobbed and sobbed.
“Pina, my God, what’s wrong? I really love it. I love you, and you’re my best friend!”
I recovered and lied. “I just like you so much. I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”
A part of me registered her words “I love you.” I felt a warm tingle at the thought. But mostly I was really scared to let her go for a whole day.
I watched as Katie’s parents’ Lincoln drove away. I got that hollow, black feeling, like all of a sudden, I walked into a deep, empty, cold room. It smelled of old plaster: cold, chemical, dank. I was all alone, and it was my prison. The feeling seemed like it would go on forever. My stomach flipped; I worried I’d give myself away to my parents.
First, I had better get the heck back in the cabin and under the covers before my father made the fire. I was going to spend the day fishing with him so he would have plenty of time to grill me if he found out I had been up to something.
ChapterNine
OUT ON A FISHING EXPEDITION
My father and I walked slowly. We made our way in silence, but for the crunching stones along the path to the boat dock. My father’s cigarette pulsed between his lips as he breathed heavily. He smoked too much. His ugly gray Dickies work pants or some cheaper version blew in the breeze against his skinny bowed legs.
“Rickets,” he explained to me once. He was one of seven children – second generation, poor Italians – and didn’t get enough fresh vegetables and fruit. We never talked much, but somehow our steps were in sync. I fell into my nature-state, that’s what I called it when I was one with the pines and the loons and the fresh water lapping. We were all in sync, that way.
My father helped me down to the boat and threw me a life vest. Loosening the bow tie line, my father took the stern and pushed out. The small Evinrude caught, and we sputtered away. The oil and gas odors drifted into pine and seaweed scents, and the breeze drew us out beyond the float to more open water.
“There’s Maidenfern.” Cigarette in the left hand, my father indicated a point to the south. “If you were a little rich girl, you could go to camp there too.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” I said. “They’re stuck up.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw some of them on an outing at The House That Jack Built.”
“Well, your friend Kati
e’s dad was talking about sending her there.”
I said, “She’d never go.”
Inside, I was panicking. Was that a possibility?
“You wouldn’t want to go?”
“No!”
But what if Katie did go? A yucky sense of betrayal was creeping over me. I feigned asphyxiation by gas fumes to justify my tears. Katie and I never talked about money or what it did and didn’t bestow upon us. Yet, we were strangely aware there was a difference between us that focused or clouded our dreams.
Dreams. I was trying to avoid thinking about mine, but my body ached. Why did a dream have to hurt so much? I just wanted to die to make it stop hurting, both in my body and in my soul. I felt nausea rising up and realized that I had to focus on my father if I didn’t want to lose it completely.
He looked so sure of himself and in command in this boat. Strong and gentle.
“We don’t belong to part of this world up here in Maine,” he said.
My mother certainly wanted to, which caused my father no end of pain. Was he a failure? Would Katie really go to this camp?
My father turned back to the motor, pushed the choke, and the engine hummed a different rhythm. A real fleet of red canoes made in Orono, Maine passed us by in formation, and I stared after the beautiful wooden boats with longing. Maybe I could go to college there one day.
The girls looked neat and tidy in those white Lacoste shirts. New ones, not like my old hand-me-down. They probably rode horses too.
“Hey, Dad, do people ever win horses from the cereal boxes?”
Death and Love at the Old Summer Camp Page 4