All For One

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  Nan gestured at the little bodies and big bodies gathered near the buses. “Everyone looks eager to go. Are you ready for a weekend away from this place?”

  Was I at home? Was I? Was it a dream? “I think so.”

  “I wish I was going with you,” Nan Jakowitz said with a smile, then walked off toward the main building.

  Mary’s hands slipped off the steering wheel and came to her mouth, close together as if clutching in prayer, or maybe in concert to staunch a scream. All they did, though, was muffle a question that came already soft past her lips. “What is happening to me?”

  An answer did come, surprising Mary but not startling her. Not from one of the voices, pleasant or otherwise. Not from any person. This answer came in thought. Came from her, she knew. She just knew. From Mary Austin.

  It’s Mr. Bannister.

  Still, she had no idea what it meant.

  Part of her was pained by that reality. Another was joyous.

  Forty Three

  There were eight boys’ cabins and eight girls’ cabins at Camp One Wing, whose emblem of a one-winged blue jay hung over the main entrance road in colors painted vibrant once each week, winter or summer. There was also a dining hall with a piano and fireplace, and tables enough for a hundred and eighty hungry little campers. A lodge sat on a slight rise next to the dining hall, and beyond it a T-shaped staff building that always seemed to have rock music blaring from it. The camp manager’s house sat next to the entrance road. Deer came to its back door often to partake of the saltlick. The manager’s name was Ballard. People called him just that.

  Joey and Jeff were with four other boys in Jayhawk 2. They’d gotten the luck of the draw and ended up as overflow with a mixed group of campers from the other schools. Uncrowded as it was they each had the ultimate in camp luxury: both a top and a bottom bunk. “Hey, who’s watching the stove?” a boy from Greenwood Elementary asked brusquely. The orange glow seen through the slightly parted doors of the coal-black pot belly stove had ebbed, and now crackled barely yellow. It was getting cold. “Who’s watching the fire?”

  “Guess you are,” Joey said, and got chuckles from three of his cabin mates, brusque-boy not included. Jeff stayed silent. “Jeff?”

  “Yeah?”

  Joey pulled two sweatshirts and his warm jacket from his bag and laid them on the bottom bunk. That’s what bottom bunks were for, in this case: clothes. The top was for sleeping. Or clowning. It all depended. “What’s up? You haven’t said hardly anything today.”

  “I’m just... I don’t know.”

  “Is it Mike?”

  Jeff tossed his suitcase to the head of the bunk and laid down, using it as a pillow. All the real pillows were piled on the top, ready for sleep or pillow fights. “I don’t know.”

  Well, Mike had told him what Joey knew to be true: that he didn’t kill Bryce. But Jeff hadn’t wanted to talk much about their conversation beyond that. Maybe it had just been hard seeing Mike like that, Joey guessed. Locked in his room, accused of murdering his best friend. Or maybe it was something else. Joey couldn’t be sure, especially with Jeff being less than his usual, cocky self.

  Something had thrown him for a loop, Joey could tell. He figured only time would tell what it was.

  Brusque-boy, whose baseball jersey said his name was Guns, pushed two pieces of wood into the stove and burned himself shutting the twin doors. “Damn the ham!”

  Joey gave Guns a ‘What?’ look.

  “What?” Guns mumbled, one scalded finger buried in his mouth.

  “Nothing,” Joey said, his shaking head pitying Guns as he decided that Greenwood had sent one total dumbshit to One Wing.

  Light spilled suddenly into the cabin. The door had opened, and Miss Austin stood there in shadow.

  Joey smiled at her. Jeff’s eyes twisted her way.

  “The opening session begins in half an hour,” Mary told the occupants of Jayhawk 2. “In the dining hall. Everybody got it?”

  Five nods answered her incompletely. “Jeff?”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  Mary smiled right at him and backed out of the cabin. The door swung shut and left the space in an afternoon din.

  “Jeff?” Joey said. His voice was irritated. “That wasn’t cool.”

  Jeff rolled to his side and stared at the rustic wall. Someone had carved FYAD in the wood. It had survived, where more explicit messages from the past had been sanded away, leaving bald spots on the patina of the old pine.

  So what? he thought. Wipe away what you could, when you could. Something little would always find its way back or through. FYAD.

  Fuck You And Die.

  * * *

  Before the opening session, Mary had something to do. Something quite personal.

  She left Jayhawk 2 and walked alone up the trail toward the T-shaped staff quarters. Someone had told her there was a pay phone there.

  As she progressed through the trees, she took full, precise breaths and tried to keep her thoughts clear. As clear as they were at the moment.

  On the lumbering ride up, as big gears groaned and black diesel exhaust belched from the back of the bus, Mary had calmed herself enough to think through the disconcerting happenings of the previous ten hours. She had been at home, to be certain; she had arrived at school with her bags packed, and she could only have done that at home. So she was there last night.

  And she had heard something. She remembered getting out of bed near midnight and walking into the living room. She remembered looking at the mismatched curtain. Had the sound that woke her come from the porch? Like before?

  Had Chuck Edmond come back?

  She remembered Nan Jakowitz tapping on her car window, and how that had made her jump. A noise like that, one inexorably tied to the likes of Chuck Edmond, could have easily woken her up like last night. Of course it could have.

  Do I believe that?

  Yes I do.

  Mary slowed on the trail until she stopped at its rock-bordered edge and reached out for the nearest tree. A nauseating warmth had come up through her legs, bottom to top, as if sucked from the ground upon which she’d walked. Her knees now had that loose feeling that made her think her control of them was slipping. That they might just buckle of their own accord any second.

  The warmth washed into her middle, and bubbled in her stomach before starting up again, a bitter, caustic wave of acidy something riding its crest up her throat. Coming up. Up. Up.

  Mary’s eyes went wide with fright, a loose and fleeting sprinkle of memory coming with the rush of vomit.

  Bannister...

  ...like that...

  ...good...

  ...yes...

  Mr. Bannister...

  ...bad...

  ...swallow...

  ...tell...

  DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!

  The hound’s cry, which had not bothered her for a long enough time that she had begun to think it had finally up and left her, jolted Mary as the hot fist of vomit came into her mouth.

  Mary threw both arms around the tree for support and dropped to her weak knees. She retched onto the dirty earth at the base of the thin, young pine, emptying her stomach, her back arching violently...

  ...can’t...

  ...through spasm after spasm of dry heaves. And when those subsided, the coughs hit her, each hacking fit bursting from inside as if driven out by a punch in the gut.

  When the coughs had finished, Mary was on her hands and knees, her hair hanging down around her face, yellowed spit dangling in a long string toward the lumpy puddle of vomit steaming on the ground. She eased back on her knees and leaned one shoulder against the tree. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket and spit the awful taste from her mouth. Her strength was gone. Zapped by this episode. If she could, she would have laid down right there and let her eyes close. To just close her eyes for a moment would be...

  gloriouswouldntitMARY?

  Mary rose up on her haunches as the quickspeaker finished her thought
. She grabbed the tree for stability and hauled herself to her feet, eyes instinctively scanning her surroundings, looking everywhere but inside. She wasn’t going to do that, wasn’t going to let whatever it was that was taunting her make her look there. No way. Not anymore. She had come this way for a very simple reason. Nothing, inside or outside, had any right to delay what she needed to do. This was not about...anything that mattered to...the voices. It was about Chester. Her cat. Pure and simple. Making sure he was all right. That was it.

  Mary let go of the tree, stood still for a moment just off the trail to make sure her knees were back in working, if slightly wobbly order, then walked slowly back onto the worn earth of the trail.

  She made it three steps before the voices attacked.

  STOP RIGHT THERE YOU SLUT BITCH!

  stopMARYstopokaystopjuststopMARY

  She reached out for a tree again, putting the palm at the end of one stiff arm against it for support. “Shut up,” Mary said in a low, almost growling voice.

  TURN AROUND! NOW!

  Mary looked ahead, just a few feet down the trail. Another young pine stood there. Not far. Not far at all.

  DON’T YOU....

  She pushed off the tree and leaned forward, stumbling up the trail to the next young pine.

  whywontyoulistenMARYjustturnaroundMARYbecauseyoureactingcrazyMARYandtheydontletcrazypeopleteachMARY

  Don’t listen, the quiet, friendly voice said. Mary had the thought that this was actually her talking to herself. She. The voice of some reason. This is me talking here! Do you hear that?! Me!

  She stumbled on hot and tenuous knees to the next tree.

  BITCH! STOP!

  Go to hell, Mary told her taunter, and made her way awkwardly to the next tree.

  hewillthinkyourecrazyMARY

  No, he won’t. She grabbed the next tree with both hands, almost falling. The rough bark abraded the skin on one palm, drawing blood.

  yeshewillthinkyourecrazyMARY

  Mary gulped dry breaths and looked up the trail, through a thin stand of trees that filled the far side of a bend in the path. She could see it. The staff building. It wasn’t far.

  TOO FUCKING FAR FOR YOU, YOU LITTLE COCKSUCKER!

  Anger flamed in Mary’s eyes. She was pure madness now. Pure hate for what was being said to her. At her. By (her?) the voices.

  She made her knees lock and trudged stiff-legged past four trees, gritting her teeth and grabbing the fifth pine just as her papery legs begged a break.

  STOP NOW! NOW!

  dontMARYdontoryoumight—

  I’LL MAKE YOU REMEMBER, YOU SLUT! YOU TEASE! I’LL MAKE IT COME BACK!

  For a reason she did not understand, that threat deeply frightened Mary. It raised a chilly flutter of goose bumps up her back. Where warmth had come up through her just minutes before, a fluid iciness now drained from behind her eyes and coursed through every secret part of her being.

  I’LL MAKE YOU REMEMBER, BITCH!

  Mary drew a very deep breath that flowed down her throat so cold it hurt. She held it and pushed off the tree. Her feet moved one after the other toward the bend. One step. Another. And another.

  hewillthinkyourecrazyMARY

  Go! Go! Keep going!

  She was at the bend now, the staff building a stone’s throw away, if that.

  noMARYplease

  YOU ARE GOING TO BE SO FUCKING SORRY!

  Mary glanced back over her shoulder, back a dozen trees or so. The voices were coming from there, it seemed. Outside of her. Fading as she put distance between them.

  BITCH!

  She turned back toward the staff building and moved faster, her legs gaining strength.

  YOU’LL BE SO FUCKING SORRY!

  noMARYdont

  Running, now. She was running, and she didn’t look back.

  FUCKING BITCH! I’LL MAKE YOU REMEMBER! I WILL MAKE YOU REMEMBER!

  * * *

  Dooley called Joel Friday morning and asked him to meet for lunch. Something was on his mind.

  They were seated in a corner booth in a place called Emilio’s, Bartlett’s version of a fine Italian restaurant. It was dark inside, with lots of red leather and deep woodtones. A lattice wrapped candle glass glowed red at the center of the table.

  Joel ordered eggplant parmigiana. Dooley asked for a number two.

  “My check this time,” Dooley said.

  “Ah. You don’t hate me anymore.”

  “I was premature.”

  A waiter came and poured water. Ice clinked in the glasses as they filled.

  “You said something was bugging you.”

  “Not bugging, really,” Dooley explained. “It was just something that Tim Markworth said.”

  “You talked to Tim Markworth? When did you talk to Tim Markworth.”

  “Late yesterday. He got a message to me. I assumed you knew.”

  Joel sipped from his water and wiped the condensation from his hand after putting the glass down. “Little slips of paper have a way of getting lost at headquarters. So what did he say?”

  “He said something about moving his family here for a better life. He said it the first time I met him, too, but last night it sparked something. You know, how many kids in that class are not Washington natives? A good portion, I’d guess.”

  “So?”

  “So, neither you or I think Michael did this alone. These other kids helped.”

  “And?”

  “They may be perfect little kids. But were they always? Like if any of them lived out of state. Our records here wouldn’t show that.”

  “Juvi records are sealed, Dooley. You know that.”

  Dooley smiled. “Newspapers aren’t. They report allegations all the time. I’m thinking that maybe your department ought to do a news search for any past misdeeds by these kids that might have been reported. And do it nationwide. Kids go to relatives or old friends’ places on summer vacation sometimes.”

  Joel mulled the idea, warming to it. “Not bad. I’ll give them the junta’s names in—”

  “Not just them,” Dooley interrupted. “The whole class. There may have been silent partners who didn’t put their prints on that bat.”

  Joel nodded. “Good thinking.”

  Dooley didn’t have time to agree. His beeper was chirping on his hip.

  * * *

  He called the number left on his pager from a phone off Emilio’s dim lounge. The handset stank of bourbon.

  Barely one ring sounded on the other end before an eager voice answered. “Dooley?”

  He puzzled at the number on his pager. “Mary? Where are you calling from?”

  “Camp One Wing. The conference. Remember?”

  “Right, yeah.” She sounded harried. He could picture her rocking back and forth on her heels. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I—”

  “Are you okay?” he asked. The question had come without warning, something deep pushing it up.

  “I’m fine. The opening session is starting in a few minutes and I wanted to call you. I have a favor to ask.”

  Dooley leaned against the velvety wallpaper by the phone. “Shoot.”

  The barest hesitating breath stalled Mary’s question. “Will you... Is there any way you could stay at my place this weekend?”

  “At your place? Why?”

  “I feel silly...”

  “Just say it.”

  “I heard something again last night,” Mary explained.

  Dooley’s grip stiffened on the handset. “Was it Chuck Edmond?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I heard.” But I did hear something. I know that much. “I know it’s going to sound stupid, but I’m worried about Chester.”

  “Chester?” Dooley repeated dumbly.

  “My cat...”

  “Right. Chester.”

  “I don’t want to get home Sunday night and find him boiled up in a pot for me, or skinned and hanging on my back porch.”

  Dooley mulled it for a few s
econds. “I don’t know, Mary.”

  “I won’t be there,” she said. “You’re safe from me. It won’t happen.”

  A blushing smile spread upon his face. “Sure. Okay.”

  “Thank you, Dooley. My neighbor, Mrs. Reed, has a key. I’ll let her know to expect you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I really appreciate this.”

  “It’s not a problem,” he said. Then there was something else he wanted to say, coming from that lowplace again. The place where old teenage love pangs used to originate. “Mary?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know, I wouldn’t mind it if you were there. If we were there. Together.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Are you smiling?”

  “I am,” Mary half lied. Tears welled and spilled onto her cheeks.

  * * *

  Late Friday night, Mandy Fine sat on her bunk in Whitetail 4 and clicked on her flashlight. She flipped the cover back on the drawing tablet she’d brought with her, a smaller one than her preferred one at home, and adjusted the light to shine on her lap. She listened to the sleepy breathing of the girls with whom she was sharing this far too rustic cabin. Listened to them snore like she would never, ever snore. Very unladylike it was. She let her eyes play over the dark, square room, checking to see that no little eyes were open and cast her way. No spying little eyes.

  None were.

  Mandy took a pencil in hand and mouthed the words as she wrote a letter to Charlie.

  Dearest Charlie,

  Camp One Wing is an atrocious place. Wish you were here. (Ha ha) Really, it is rather pretty, although the accommodations are very primitive. Wood burning stoves heat the cabins. Can you believe that? I am surprised that we did not arrive at this backward place drawn by teams of horses.

  All my classmates are here. Except dead Bryce and dead Guy, of course. And Michael, too, the poor fellow. Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice. It is a wondrous thing, Charlie, isn’t it?

  It is very late and all the girls in the cabin with me are asleep. (For the record, Charlie, I am the prettiest of them all. I believe I am prettier than all the girls in camp.)

  I just wanted to write a brief note to you.

  Mandy considered what she’d written as she chewed her lip, thinking, a steely bit of dread working its way into her expression. She put the pencil to paper again.