Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten

by Allison Greer

  their long-held beliefs, their desire that I graduate from high school at the top of the top of my class even though I knew there was no way I’d be valedictorian or salutatorian.

  “The rest of high school was a drudge. Just me and my books. Nothing was worth looking forward to. I managed to keep putting one foot in front of the other and, eventually, that got me to the end of high school. And, then what? More books, more drudge, more steps toward . . . what? The end of college. Then what? I had no idea.

  “One of my best girlfriends never took a stitch of chemistry or physics. All her stitches were in home economics—to teach, if she and her boyfriend didn’t marry first. They were an ‘item’. She was happy, made the top quarter, near the top of our graduating class with her grade point average. If that weren’t enough, she got to stay in the Cadettes and was voted Miss Most Congenial our senior year. She and Barry married soon after graduation. I barely made a ‘C’ in chemistry—it was excruciating—and just missed failing physics. That was humiliating and I was miserable. I didn’t think I could possibly keep it up in college. Didn’t know where I’d go and didn’t care. All my parents knew to do with me was to keep pushing—same-ole-same-ole.

  “The summer gave me a rest. I sold tickets at the movie theater and worked in the concession booth. My boss told me that, in his entire history with the theater, I was the only one he could remember who’d ever balanced at the end of the day. I was feeling quite nice, quite self-confident wearing a really cute outfit, a hand-

  me-down. The close-fitting, black and white checked princess-style dress showed off my cleavage in a most polite way, even when the black taffeta weskit was on. It was so cute . . . piped in the same black and white checked material as the dress.

  “And, a lot of interesting people came to the movies, including Carey Olftersen. I was working the ticket booth by myself between features—business was all but non-existent—when I saw him and his buddy walking toward the ticket booth, but not before they saw me. When I picked my eyes up from counting my change, looked down the street, I saw the friend with a smile on his face turn and nudge Carey in the ribs. I really didn’t feel like it was a compliment. The friend seemed to me to be poking fun, mocking me. Maybe it was my imagination. Carey very matter-of-factly bought the two tickets and they walked into the theater. C’est la vie.

  “My first year away at college was pretty good; I had a dorm room all to myself. Mother helped me decorate. It looked nice . . . a corner room with two large windows and lots of sunshine filtering through my pink curtains onto my pink chenille bedspread. I had all the room I needed to spread out, which I’d always done at home—spread my books and papers out around me on the floor when I studied. I could listen to my Everly Brothers’ records whenever I wanted, go to sleep at night to Elvis. It wasn’t half bad. And, I managed to get to classes on time, keep my grades up.

  “Then it happened. I’m living proof: you can get Candida from bath tubs and toilet seats and you can get mono without ever kissing a guy. Why it’s called the

  ‘Kissing Disease’, I’ve not a clue, ’cause I kissed no one. But, the doctor delivered me, anyway, from completing my first year at college. I went home to good food, lots of bed rest and peace. It’s really a shame, though, ’cause I was on a roll—a good roll. Not an amazingly fantastic, attention-getting, award-winning roll, but a good roll.

  “My girlfriends came over. We talked, played my records. They filled me in on what had been happening while I was away. Sometimes we popped popcorn or cooked. I’m crazy about cooking with my friends, but I had to get my mom to do my part. Contagion, you know. And, sometimes, we turned it into a party in my backyard. Daddy put up the lights, did some grilling. We pulled out my record player and bought sensational table decorations, balloons, confetti, little colorful umbrellas for our drinks. I still couldn’t do much but sit on the sidelines and coach, but we had such fun. Huge belly-laughs about the silliest things . . . all good-natured fun. We were never mean or cruel with our good times. And, lots of great music.

  “One afternoon, I was sitting on the front porch swing reading, looked up to see Carey standing at the gate waiting for me to notice him. He could be a wee bit peculiar with his deep, blue eyes which he attached to you with no emotion or nuance, no sign of kindness, no move to be sociable. He was most stingy with his smiles and evidences of cordiality, showing no obligation toward courtesy, let alone friendship. I think he lived by the idea that one might achieve success in life by getting the most you could out of the least effort. ‘Maximum results from minimum effort’—I think that’s some sort of financial axiom, or something. He required you to make the move

  and he would respond accordingly—according to how he devised he should or how he felt at the moment or how he thought he could work it to his advantage.

  “I took the initiative, said ‘Hello.’ Without returning the greeting, he asked if he could borrow my father’s crescent wrench, that he was working on his father’s antique Cushman scooter, couldn’t find his dad’s. He really needed the tool. I told him my father was around back in the garage, that he could go ask, if he liked. He did and that was the start of our whirlwind courtship. When, exactly, I recovered fully from mono I don’t know, but the knowledge of my illness didn’t stop Carey from giving me my first French kiss . . . and many more.

  “He quickly usurped my time, demanded it, although I can never remember him actually saying so. However, he did say he didn’t like my friends, didn’t want to be around them. He went through my closet pointing out each piece of clothing he didn’t like, told me he wanted me to get rid of them. I thought it was awfully nervy of him. Daddy commented once that Carey drove his car very fast but he was safe. That’s about the only thing I ever heard my dad say about him. Mother and Carey hit it off right from the start. I’d come into the kitchen and there he’d be at the table talking to her.

  “But, next time—if I ever marry, again,” Margaret heard her say softly as though to herself, “I’ll try hard not to marry a man like him ever, again.”

  “After our engagement, he vented his anger more and more. We had arguments over who-knows- what . . . crumby arguments. Who remembers that shit. I never used to argue or bicker or curse before Carey. Various other things really disturbed me and I went to my mom, told her I didn’t want to marry Carey. She and Dad decided they should invite him over so he and I could have a nice conversation, discuss our differences. Then, they left the house. All I remember of our conversation was Carey setting me on the kitchen table and letting his fingers do the talking. I was a virgin. Carey awakened me. And, for a virgin, a little bit of finger talk goes a long way toward obligation and commitment.

  “In some ways I think my friends who knew intimacy with boys before marriage were ahead of the game. I know the Bible tells us to remain celibate until marriage, but it’s not good to know nothing . . . not to have other relationships for comparison. Mercy! Even in real estate, you’re smart to get comparables. But, Carey’s the only man I’ve known.

  “Some time passed and Carey disturbed me even more. I went, again, to my mom, told her I didn’t want to marry him.

  “She said, ‘Go, talk to your dad.’ which I did do.

  “He said, ‘It’s too late.’

  End of story.

  “And, I’m thinking: ‘Why is it too late?! I’ve not been intimate with him. I’m not pregnant.’

  “But, there were no answers for me. My parents refused to talk to me anymore about it. The deal was struck. So, I figured it was my mother’s wedding, not mine. I got the white, simply, because no one could begrudge it to me. The dusty rose was her idea. They chose the bakery; I chose the cake. They chose the florist; I chose the bouquets. She chose the bridesmaids’ dresses; I chose their hats.

  “And, when the pastor left Carey and me alone in a tiny, little room to ruminate over the vows he set before us, the obligations of husband and wife
, I sat thinking:

  “‘What’s the sense of this? It’s a done deal.’

  “On some significant level I even blamed the minister. Crazy, isn’t it. My pain spilled over onto that poor man who was completely unaware of the betrayal I was feeling . . . a man who went into every ceremony expecting the couples he joined in matrimony to be looking forward to life together with hope and joy. I thought to myself,

  “’He knows. He can tell my attitude in this sacred nook is not what it ought to be. He can see straight through me.’

  “He, probably, went back to his own office shaking his head to the secretary, saying,

  “‘Well, that’s a lost cause.’

  “Where did I go wrong? Instead of thinking, I should have been praying. Praying for God’s intervention

  which He will do. You see . . . that’s the problem when parents usurp God’s place in their children’s lives. Those children start thinking their parents are the be-all, end-all, know-all. Rather than those children going to God in prayer, they go to their parents looking for wisdom and are told,

  “‘I don’t have the answer.’

  “My obligations were abundantly clear: to do as I was told, to do everything I’d ever heard of that made a woman a good wife. And, I did try. I tried no less than my whole-hearted attempts to pull off A’s in chemistry and physics. Doing the best I could was no more than I could require of myself.

  “Funny. After the wedding, I saw Carey less and less, my parents, seldom and my friends, not at all. He just didn’t come home. I’d prepare a supper. It’d be on the table waiting. He never came, never called. So, I fixed my plate, put it on a tray, watched TV alone. If I asked him why he was out so late or why he didn’t call or come home, he stormed at me from all the way across the room, acting like he was going to hit me. I was afraid of him. When he was at home, his idea of foreplay was a tap on the shoulder on his way to the bedroom. I was to act accordingly. When we were out—to see a movie or something—he’d take my hand, but, after a second, maybe two, he’d gradually release his grip, limp, and I’d be the only one holding hands. He never called me endearing names, never called me by my name. He’d just pick up a conversation and, since I was the only one in the room, I was to assume he was talking to me. He didn’t cuddle or hug or come up to me and put his arms around me.

  When I did something like that, he’d tell me to stop . . . I was going to make him hot.

  “Once I got into bed totally naked. T-O-T-A-L-L-Y N-A-K-E-D, Meggie! Wouldn’t you think that’d give him a clue?! He rolled over on his side with his back to me and groaned. I did that once more—you can see how desperate or desperately needy I was. He adamantly disallowed me to take the initiative. I can tell you, Meggie, it was devastating. I never begged him, again. That’s why I think he always had a huge cruel streak.

  “Now, I can just hear a marriage counselor expounding to his touchie-feelie group,

  “‘Is there any hope for this marriage?’

  “I kept remembering the wonderful things my father did to my mother like coming up briskly from behind, putting his arm around her waist. Exuberantly, they two would go walking down the sidewalk together. He was never ashamed to be close to her in public, to call her a pet name, to kiss her, to take her hand, to tell her he loved her.

  “At first, I decided I must not be worthy enough of a person, a wife to merit such things. Today, however, I just resent my mother for depriving me of the kind of life and love relationship she had. ’Cause, I had other bows . . . if they’d given me a little more time. But, no. As soon as ole Carlie starts floundering, she’s dumped. C’est la vie.

  “Slowly, in such subtle ways, God produced a miracle: I started loving Carey. I really didn’t much notice what was going on. I think it was all the little things I began to learn about him which endeared him to me. Like, on one of the few times he was home he told me as a child and young teen his father with his mother’s permission and participation beat him with a leather belt. He said they’d be standing around him, his dad—belt in hand—and he’d be crying, sobbing, pleading with them not to use the belt. But, they did anyway. It’d be over fairly insignificant things and Carey could never understand what was so bad that he had to be whipped with a strap. He just knew that his grandfather had used a razor strap on his dad and his dad felt it appropriate punishment.

  “I, also, began to realize there was something a wee bit peculiar about my husband that made making, keeping friends difficult. Whatever it was, it, also, made maintaining his place at work uncomfortable. He, simply, could not find a spot for himself in the pecking order or maybe the spot he found wasn’t to his liking. He would come home from work, sit on the side of our bed and cry. My heart broke to see this. Friends had always come so easy for me and I think a job would be the same. I knew he was a hard worker, conscientious. Goodness knows, he spent enough hours at the office.

  “And, then I found out more about his home and school life when we were children. His mother didn’t like him to have friends at school. His dad didn’t like the kids over to their house. They gave Carey all kinds of excuses for their decisions. Me . . . I suspect his mother just wanted her only son, her only child, nearby in case she had an errand for him to run—since, once his dad got home from work, he adamantly refused to leave the house, again. He popped a can of beer, sat before the TV, relaxed in his recliner, refused to budge.”

  “‘That’s what I worked my ass off all day long for—so I could have a home to come to and relax. I don’t need nobody pesterin’ me about it.’

  “For the most part the only recreation they allowed Carey was his motorcycle. I suspect it took a lot of begging and pleading, conniving, bartering and who knows what else on his part to get their permission, especially, considering his accident some years earlier. And, it came out of the money he saved making hamburgers at the drive-in. But, whether it was running the streets or wrenching, this was pure heaven for him, hawg heaven.

  “All the mechanics, he taught himself. I guess, if he had a real skill in life, it would be working on motorcycles. Too bad . . . I don’t think he ever knew it. Nobody ever pointed it out to him that he could maybe make a good living at the very thing he adored. But, then, he was still very young. Too young, really, to see it for himself without a mentor. Here, again, my heart went out to him . . . and to me, as well. My parents really didn’t mentor me except to keep pushing me to achieve. But, achieve for what purpose, toward what end? That was the question they never answered.

  “I can’t think of any one person who came along side me and said, ‘Here, I’ll show you how to do that.’ or ‘Here, let me show you a better way.’ or ‘Here, let’s do that together. Let’s be partners. Two heads are better than one.’

  “But, then, that’s not entirely true. The band director and Cadette instructor really encouraged me. They liked me. It was so neat to have people believing in me, encouraging me in things that came so easy for me. Just too bad it didn’t work out. Sputnik, and all. C’est le vie.

  “That’s where Carey really had the advantage over a lot of other kids. Even without a mentor, as early as high school, he knew a craft that served him well—in the present and into the future. And, he had a way to make his money . . . hamburgers. Those two things put him ahead of many, many of our classmates. I don’t think he ever looked at it that way, though, and I was too young to see it myself.

  “I went over to him as he sat on the bed and put my arms around him, held his head close against my diaphragm. He sat for a while, a very short while, letting me hold him, then he brushed me aside harshly and stumbled outside to his Harley. I heard him hit it just once. So finely tuned, it fired right away, rumbling and roaring through its pipes,

  “‘Let’s git outta here.’

  “And, he was gone. My husband left me standing beside our bed wanting so much to cry myself, feeling so miserable and alone. My ne
rves were jangling and, as Walt Disney calls it so very politely, all ‘twitterpated’. I’m not into masochism, Maggie, but there are some situations that upset me in such a way that my nerves start firing, misfiring—whatever—and I find myself most . . . most, well, ‘twitterpated’. I don’t like it ’cause there’s nothing to do with it. He’s gone. Don’t know when he’ll be back. And, from experience, this I know: I could crawl into bed buck naked and he’d not care less.

  “Just about my only consolation is that I am a pretty, young woman. Well, I passed Cadette muster, didn’t I? When I’m so clearly and painfully turned down, I go to my mirror, hold out my arms and say,

  “‘What’s not to love?!’

  ‘I’m taller than my mother by an inch or two with longer legs that are more straight than not. I’ve gained just a smidge since high school and it went to all the right places. Now, my bosom is bigger than hers. She never did really have a good cleavage. When I flash mine—in a polite way—male members stand up and take notice.

  “I believe a girl should know her strong points, don’t you?

  “I know what you’re thinking, Margaret. You’re thinking I’m in competition with my mother and you’re right. But, I used to not be. It used not to be that way. I loved her simply, unquestioningly as I thought a good daughter ought. I took joy in the relationship she and my dad had, thinking that’s the way marriage should be. I’ll have that someday. But, then, she pushed me into this pseudo-relationship I now share with Carey. And, I hold her accountable. The more miserable I am, the more

  accountable she becomes. I try to make plans for myself. I say,

  “‘Ok, if he’s not going to be around and you know how nobody respects divorce—God being highest on that list—you’re just going to have to make plans for yourself. Get some kind of life going that will supplement what you’ve got with Carey. Do what the marriage counselors suggest: be creative, spontaneous.’