Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten

by Allison Greer

  The young son’s response to his father’s arrest was painful to watch, but so, too, had been that of Carlie’s father when he saw what remained of his beloved daughter brought into the morgue on a stretcher. He had gone down to spare his wife that last memory.

  {“To use Carlie’s words, ‘C’est la vie.’”}

  Perhaps, the more interesting of the two items taken from the scene was the Social Security card for it had ground into its fibers all Detective Deeks needed to know to close the case. The red iron oxide soil proved to be the same as that found around the pool at Camp Matigua. And, as well, the mineral deposits, unique to those warm-spring waters, tied it even more specifically to the scene of the crime . . . the secrets that bubbled up from deep down, under the pool’s bedrock, dredging microscopic debris, propelling all upward to join the rains that fell upon its surface.

  What radiant chronicles

  a water ort can claim,

  of savage summits o’ertaken on

  turbulent nights,

  of placid runnels and

  raving courses journeyed

  like a bull out of the gate.

  The clinchers, what the court would be most impressed with, however, were likely to be the smears of blood acquired when the card fell to the ground where Carlie had been struck and the significant chip on the radio. Deputy Deeks expected it to be a perfect match with the piece the coroner tweezed out of Carlie’s scalp, placed in a plastic bag for future reference.

  Carey’s accomplice, the name of his biker bitch-wife, came out during one of his routine visits with the prosecuting district attorney. It seems his prison-mates saw through him, as well, and they can be quite compelling . . . did a little tenderizing of their own.

  48

  “I got so thirsty, Maggie, waiting there. I thought surely someone—my mom, my pop, somebody—would come to help me. I’d never been anywhere in my whole life where there wasn’t someone who could help. When it began to rain and I felt the water rising up slowly, it seemed like a caress against my face. And, then, it came up over my ears. I could hear all the little sounds put off by our pool

  —rushing and gurgling and bubbling—and the little blossoms fell so very politely upon my face. It was just too pleasant and awesome for me to be afraid. And, I knew this was it for me. No more Tom and Jerry Sundaes. No more pickles and potato chips. No more slow kisses. No more trying to please people who’re so hard to please. I had asked God to permit me a sweet end, to let me see my Savior’s strong arms open wide for me so I wouldn’t be afraid. I felt like I should appreciate my death along with all the other things He’d given me in life. For, after all, it was my death and no one else’s. No one would ever die exactly like me.

  “And, really, death is a wedding ceremony . . . don’t you think? Wouldn’t Clarence have said as much? . . . a ceremony for those who love His Son. As the Lord lives, I was determined to enjoy it . . . and, for once, I was dressed for the occasion.”

  Song of Camp Matigua:

  Lost and Forgotten Boy Scout Camp

  As I was saying, it’s like those ole black holes that capture the light and never, ever let it go. They just absorb it, suck it up like a straw. Now, there are dark places in my pool—darker at some times than others, like when it’s stormin’ up above. There are places that are so dark, I just go around. I don’t go there till the storm passes over. And, of course, in the nighttime. I don’t go there. I, generally, stay in the light. I just like it better there where I can look up and see the stars. And the moon can be as bright as a lantern shining down on my water which is so still unless I splish-splash which I usually don’t do in the nighttime. My moon glows blue neon.

  And, too, I don’t like to leave my beached whale too long. I like the way the neon glow brushes over my beautiful mum and the water gently pats her, so I come upon her nice and slow so the water caresses her just so, so I don’t startle her and cause her to cry out in alarm. I yearn to hear her laugh and call me her little pollywog. Splish-splashin’s not as fun as it used to be.

  But my pool’s dark places aren’t stingy. Once the storm blows over and the sun comes out, all my dark places release their light and it bounces, bounces off the little fishies and plants down under. And you could see some turtles gliding along the bottom, maybe swimming, maybe walking and the light bouncin’ off their backs and their little feets and they’d be lookin’ for somethin’ to eat. Maybe even a little pollywog. They’d eat a pollywog, if they came upon it, for sure. That’s why pollywogs have to be fast and alert and ready to dive deep or swim up quick to the top. Ready-Freddy. Redi Kilowatt.

  But everything’s so crystal clear in my pool and the colors are so complete, so vivid bright, mostly ’cuz there’s little that disturbs us. A green leaf, maybe red or orange or yellow, falls, makes a little ripple, so little and floats around. Eventually, it sinks to the silt below. A lovely flower blossom falls, makes a bigger ripple, but not much, floats around and, finally, sinks to the silt below. They turn ugly brown down there on the ground of my pool. And soon—whacko—entropy. I can’t tell where the leaf was or where it went to in the silt. And the beautiful little blossom’s turned into an old woman and, soon, it, too, has disappeared. One day I swim by and there it is and the next time I pass, it is no more and I can’t find it anywhere.

  But the light’s happy in my water and sometimes it dives deep just like me and glances off all the little fishies’ bubbles . . . from one to another till everything down under is glistening, sparkle-twinkley. You can see why I love my pool. And me mum is there and I come up on her slow and swim all around her. And the little fishies nibble at her and they nibble at me with their wee piscus lips.

  *

  The baby kicked his chubby right foot to dissuade a tiny pair of lips from tugging, nibbling a tickle. Now and then a mightier little fishie gave a hefty tug upon the afterbirth, pulling the infant boy down. But, his mind’s eye was on the prize and with great determination, he bobbed back up and persisted in his patrol through the bright and clear spring waters. As he gave his journey through the pool this kick-start, Maggie felt certain she

  heard the faint sound of a motorcycle’s powerful muffler rev a rumble. Mr. Bill caught sight of a bright and shining ray of light, so greatly adored by the baby, as it bounced for an instant off his mighty, manly engine.

  Trailing well below, hanging onto its baby by its thick cord, the customary, membranous weight from his birth weeble-wobbled, beeble-bobbled through the clean and clear water—a rigorous anchor to hinder the stamina of lesser saints. Its persistently ravenous and continually present piscatorial entourage hovered around, endeavoring to keep up as the infant progressed through his pool and maneuvered off into the darkening distance—into an ever-thickening screen of brilliantly green, silt-bound plants.

  Once, again, but so much more clearly, Margaret heard the distinct revving of a powerful cycle. But, the baby had already moved out of sight.

  {“He would have made his daddy proud.”}

  “I would have made my daddy proud, huh?”

  50

  ENDING

  {“There . . . No! . . . down there at the street corner—see her?!” Mr. Bill was growing impatient. “Where the lamplight shines.” . . . shimmering up from the little puddles the night’s shower left behind.

  {“Don’t you see her?”}

  Maggie, dear Maggie, indeed, was there alone, standing, one gloved hand resting on the lamppost. Dressed to the nines, she was. Brazier, under-panties, slip, proverbial girdle—lest any piece of flesh should jiggle—and hose all neatly folded, tucked away in her dresser drawer . . . suit on hanger. But, atop her head sat the customary, navy-blue, pill-box hat with veil, white gloves, navy blue heels and a lovely, crocheted shawl around her pudgy, pink and bare shoulders.

  {“One thing you’re forgetting,” Mr. Bill reminded. “The purse . . . the navy-blue
purse on her arm. I have to give the girl credit . . . she puts a lot of thought into accessories.”}

  Margaret lifted her hand, carefully adjusting the net to drape a bit farther over her forehead, and peered up into the white-hot, stelliferous, night sky where she perceived those heavenly bodies blinking off and on—Hollywood-style:

  *Translated

  for your and my benefit:

  L I F E’ S S H O R T.

  B E S W E E T T O T H E

  C H I L D R E N.

  . . . out for one of her strolls in the cool, night air.

  {“Yeh. Yeh. She’ll get picked up some day. They’ll catch her.” That’s Mr. Bill talkin’. “I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”}

  FADE OUT

  INVITATION

  15...“I will go and return to my place, till

  they acknowledge their offense, and seek

  my face: in their affliction they will seek me

  early.

  1...Come, and let us return unto the Lord:

  for He hath torn, and He will heal us; He

  hath smitten, and He will bind us up.” KJV ™

  Hosea 5:15& 6:1

  *

  O, come, and let us return unto the Lord.

  *

  “Sometimes, Virgie, strange things happen. Well, maybe not exactly strange . . . peculiar, maybe . . . peculiar things happen. Sometimes, it takes me five minutes to figure out how to put my coffee ground basket back in the maker. I’ve been doing this for thirty years and, now, I have trouble. You think it’s significant?” Virgie heard Maggie softly say as the dear friend prepared her coffee pot for afternoon brew.

  {“Maggie has some Godly ways: if she says it once, it’s important.”}

  51

  “Rock me, Momma.”

  “What?”

  “Rock me, please, like you did when I was a baby.” the little girl reminded.

  Far back fermenting in the seven-year-old’s mind was the image of rose and pink and green chintz covering an upholstered rocking chair where her mother had held her in her lap and rocked her to sleep . . . back to the side of the bed just inside the open window where a pure, summer breeze brushed passed its rusty, mesh screen escorting a Mockingbird’s song from a nearby telephone pole, the fragrance of lately mowed grass, start-up from their neighbor’s automobile engine, the children’s baseball game several houses down and Wheel barking . . . the Kramers’ Doberman pinscher.

  “Prob’bly after the mailman, agin.” thought Maggie drowsily . . .

  {“Mind like a steel trap . . . just no stopping it.”}

  . . . with her head draped over Mother’s shoulder.

  No pacifier or gentle lullaby was required . . . simply, the creak of the rockers as her mother moved back and forth and, as the woman swung forward to push off for, yet, another round, the two, light pats delivered to her baby’s diapered bottom.

  Back-creak, forward . . . pat-creak-pat. Back-creak, forward . . . pat-creak-pat.

  The older child’s intention was not to fall asleep . . . just to, once more, feel her mother’s arms around her, to experience the peace she knew before life picked up its more frenetic pace. Mother rocked her daughter until Margaret mustered enough courage to tackle the world . . . and her brothers, once again.

  52

  “Daddy was gun-savvy before gun-savvy was cool: he kept his ammunition in a different room up high in his dresser drawer. We kids at a young age knew where he kept both.”

  “We, also, knew,” remembered the little girl, “where ta fin’ the neates’ water balloons . . .”

  {“. . . underneath their parents’ pillows. Maggie and her younger brother were less than satisfied with the way their toys sagged under the weight . . . lacked the competitive edge.”}

  “Bobbed up and down like a yo-yo, but, we could sure git a lotta water in those things!” the little girl continued in unbounded amazement. “Never did pop . . . jus’ got heavier and heavier. Almos’ touched the floor!

  “Not much good for anything we could see, so we jus’ poked a hole in ’em. Didn’ even make a good ‘pop’. Water jus’ ran out all over Momma’s floor. Then, we were hurryin’ around tryin’ to clean it up ’fore she found out. She was real tickie ’bout her hardwood floors. If there was water on ’em, she’d better be the one that

  put it there.”

  “And, Lord-help-you,” Mother was looking sternly at her two youngest, “if you get water on my floor and just leave it there. You may as well pack your bags and hike it down to Grandma Pearl’s . . . before it’s too late to wish you had.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” the two harmonized contritely, looking into their mother’s face, wide-eyed and innocent.

  “And, stay out from under Daddy’s and my pillows.”

  The two children shot a look of surprise at each other . . . what their mother interpreted as admission . . . and, then . . .

  “Fat chance . . . jus’ have ta be more careful nex’ time.”

  The children nodded in unison, turned and walked down the hall . . . minds in perfect sync.

  {“As they say in the business, ‘Mother knew what she had.’”}

  53

  {“I’ve always been with Margaret . . . even in childhood—

  semi-silent partner, you might say—the second she zipped out from between her mother’s thighs and landed amazingly in the doctor’s hands . . . a smallish baby, but loud. No requisite spank necessary. The nurse came in to check Mom, realized the dilation, snapped to, rushing down St. Theresa hallway, coattail popping as she flew.”}

  “Gurney . . . get the gurney! Quick!”

  {“They had just rolled Mom into delivery, right up to the doctor’s front door and, before he knew it, Maggie was in his hands.”}

  “It sure was a good thing you were there, Doctor.” the nurse exclaimed to the man who was standing, still puzzling over the ease of that parturition.

  {“I’ve always been with Margaret—she, simply, wasn’t fully aware of me till later when she became ill—and, a good thing or she’d have gotten herself into a lot more trouble than she did.”}

  54

  “Hudsa rawl siiiddin’ on ah reel-ah-raw, ah braw-la, braw-la sue-idt. Hudsa rawl siiiddin’ on ah reel-ah-raw, ah braw-la su-ue-idt.”

  “If you’re not going to sing it right, don’t sing it at all.” Mother required as Maggie passed through the kitchen door on her way to the backyard.

  “What?”

  “You heard me and don’t eat too many of those vanilla wafers. Supper’s almost ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Margaret took a seat swallowing the cookie she’d put in her mouth when she let the door . . .

  “And, don’t slam the door!”

  . . . slam and walked to the swings.

  The little girl loved to sing and did so with great gusto as she pushed off, “Hudsa rawl siiiddin’ on ah reel-

  ah-raw, ah braw-la, braw-la sue-idt. Hudsa rawl siiiddin’

  on ah reel-ah-raw, ah braw-la su-ue-idt.”

  {“It’s not that Maggie was kicking over the traces, an expression Great-grandpa O’Casey used on the farm; simply, that she’d gotten to see the movie only once.”}

  “Mommy and Daddy went to the early movie . . . probably sat through it two times.” Meditating upon the possibility, Margaret added, “. . . even more, maybe. No wonder she knows the words!”

  Maggie’s mom didn’t know the words, but she knew Margaret’s weren’t correct . . . Meggie loved to sing, but her mother was, actually, good at it . . . and what the child was singing was dancing the light fantastic on her last nerve.

  {“Margaret wouldn’t have sat through the movie another time, anyway.”}

  “Nope. It scared me . . . somethin’
’bout this man with a crack in his chin goin’ into a cave and singin’, “Hudsa rawl siiiddin’ on ah ree . . .”

  {“Ok! Enough already.” Maggie tapped on Mr. Bill’s last nerve, too. Frequently.}

  “It’s just a movie,” Mother reassured her daughter as Margaret clung to her arm. Margaret was a child of contradiction: she held her own with her brothers but feared Dr. Seuss.

  “. . . ’cept for Horton the Elephant.” Margaret amended somewhat apologetically.

  {“Something about Mayzie the lazy bird struck a chord of universal truth and divine justice with the child.”}

  “. . . how the baby comes out lookin’ more like ah elephant than ah bird. Served ’er right!

  “My friends and me, we called the baby Ella Birdiphant.”

  “‘I,’” corrected the child’s mother.

  “What?”

  “‘My friends and I,’ and leave out the ‘we’

  part.”

  “Ok.” Maggie complied, a bit bewildered.

  “Yes, Ma’am?” her mother persisted.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” The little daughter was

  feeling badgered.

  {“Then, the lazy bird wants all the glory,” Mr. Bill continues, “when her offspring wins love and attention under the big top.”}

  “Good grief! That’s desh*picable.” The little girl does her best at a Daffy Duck impression missing by just under a mile and spitting on everything within two feet.

  “I know: if I can’t do it right, don’t do it at all.

  “Blah, blah, blah, blah.”

  {“Even as much as universal truth and divine justice, loyalty and personal responsibility, keeping one’s word are attributes the little girl admires in Horton.”}

  Margaret’s teacher assigned her young students the task of composing their own endings to the story, an exercise in creative writing, reminding her class to attend to the key questions: who and what and why and when and where and how . . .