Although my attendance at Camp Manitou had largely been my mother’s idea, I also knew my father wanted me to be having a good time and I didn’t want to disappoint him. I never wanted to disappoint my father. I wanted him to be proud of me, and right now that meant me not acting like a baby. All it would have taken would have been for me to break down and cry, to tell him what a nightmare it all had been, and he would take me right out of there. I pictured a horrible, loud scene with the counsellors where my father would upbraid them for not taking care of me while my cabin-mates looked on and gloated at what a sissy I was.
My mother would be embarrassed about having a son that couldn’t get along with other boys, and I suspected I would pay dearly for that for the rest of the summer, if not longer. When my mother chose to withdraw affection, she could freeze ink with the chill of it.
No, it was better to suck it up and endure the next week and a half. It had to end at some point. In truth, I sensed that my cabin-mates were already getting bored of tormenting me as they developed alliances with other campers like them who had their own targets.
My father smiled and said, “How’s it going, Jamie? Are you okay? Are you having a good time at Camp Manitou?”
“It’s going great, Dad,” I lied. “I love it here.”
“Really?”
I tried to meet his eyes, but I couldn’t. Instead, I smiled brightly, looking away. “Yup.”
He paused. “What happened to your lip? You said it happened in the pool?”
“Roughhousing. It’s nothing, Dad. Really. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Are you making new friends? Any new buddies you like in particular?”
I shrugged, thinking of the dead squirrel under my sheets and how I’d screamed, and how they’d all laughed. “It’s okay, Dad. Everyone’s okay.”
“You know, your mother and I are very proud of you, Jamie. Your granddad always used to tell me that the wilderness really made a man out of a boy. I guess it’s sort of like that for you here, isn’t it. You’re really growing up.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Jamie? There’s not something you’re not telling me, is there? Because you can tell me anything, you know.”
I forced a smile at him. Even to me it seemed the smile didn’t quite make it to my eyes. But I wanted the conversation to be over, and I didn’t want my father to be disappointed in me. “No, Dad. Really. It’s fine.” I swallowed the thickness in my voice and took a deep breath. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Would you buy me a mint Aero bar at the tuck shop?”
My father seemed relieved by the innocuousness of the request. “Of course, Jamie.” He seemed as relieved as I was to bring this conversation to a close, though I wasn’t sure if it was because he suspected more of what was going on than he let on, and that the prospect of dealing with it was too daunting. If so, then my fantasy of him withdrawing me from Camp Manitou if I asked him to really was just a pipe dream. And I didn’t want to know that. It was safer not knowing. “Anything else?”
“Dad, would it be okay if we bought some for my cabin-mates?”
It was a sudden, ludicrous burst of inspiration, the notion that chocolate bars might be enough payola to buy, if not the friendship of my cabin-mates—I’d gladly settle for their indifference at that point—at least a reprieve from their bullying. And, as it turned out, it would, for a few hours that evening anyway.
“Of course, son. I’m glad to see you thinking of your buddies.”
Then we walked down the hill to where my mother was standing impatiently next to the Mercedes-Benz Estate station wagon she’d insisted my father drive, even though he’d said over and over that he couldn’t afford it. My mother didn’t look much like she was enjoying Camp Manitou, either.
In any case, it had all come to an end a week and a half later, the day the busses rolled up the gravel drive to the chapel in preparation for the end-of-camp exodus that would to take the boys home and take me to freedom.
But not before I’d found the painted turtle.
It had been sunning itself all that morning on a rock jutting out of the surface of an algae-encrusted, shallow marsh up the road from the chapel—the swampy water bracketed by pussy willows, lily pads, the dead, bleached skeletons of trees, and rotted stumps. With boys milling nearby and shouts ricocheting across the water, it was hard to believe no one else had seen the turtle, which was so beautiful and perfect that I momentarily lost my breath. It was a midland painted turtle, a specific subspecies of painted turtle with a gleaming olive-coloured carapace streaked with bands of red and orange along the sides. Its plastron was yellow, with butterfly-shaped markings along the midline. Its little head and neck, arched as though it were scenting the air, was streaked with thin bands of crimson and gold. The creature shone like a perfect emerald and ruby brooch in the sunlight.
I knew I had to have it. I had to own it.
I told myself that I wanted the turtle to be my friend, but the truth was I couldn’t bear the thought of it not belonging to me. So much of the cruelty of childhood is thoughtless, in the literal sense of the word. When I waded into the swamp and plucked the turtle off the rock, I had no sense that I was kidnapping it, of taking it out of its natural world—indeed, its home—and forcing it into my own.
Terrified, it moved its tiny limbs in frantic protest, and then withdrew its head into its shell. It defecated into the palm of my hand. I wiped my hand on the leg of my khaki shorts, for the first time all summer not caring about how dirty nature was. As gently as I could, I placed the turtle into my pocket and hurried out of the swamp.
Behind the counter in the mess hall, I found a paper sack. I transferred the turtle from my pocket to the sack, carrying it carefully by the bottom with the lip of the bag open to the air so it wouldn’t suffocate. The turtle tried frantically to scramble up the sides of the bag. Its head moved from side to side, as though trying to comprehend how one minute it had been basking in the late-July sunlight on a rock in the middle of an eastern Ontario marsh and the next, a prisoner in a brown paper cell.
I felt a flutter of pity. “Shhhhh, little turtle,” I murmured. I caressed its drying shell with my index finger, hoping it would feel reassured. “Shhhhh. It’ll be okay. You’re safe with me. You’re coming home with me, to live in my room. We’re going to be best friends, you and I. You’ll see. I’ll feed you and give you water. In the basement, we have a terrarium. I’ll wash it out and it can be your new home. I’ll watch you grow up. It’ll be great. Don’t worry.”
The turtle’s legs kicked more weakly, as though it had finally realized there was no escape. Then they stopped moving, and its head retracted inside its shell again.
In my mind, I had already named the turtle Manitou, after the camp. Even if I had endured three weeks away from everything familiar and comforting, something good would come out of it. My new friend would carry the camp’s name. I enjoyed the perversity of that as only a nine-year-old boy can.
For as long as I could, I avoided the counsellors and the other boys. It was fairly easy to do. I’d packed my green canvas duffel bag the night before and delivered it to the dining room where it would then be loaded onto the bus.
I knew that if any of the counsellors saw me, they would confiscate the turtle and let it loose in the marsh. It was expressly forbidden to take wildlife away from the woods and marshes here, even into the camp. At Manitou, we’d done our nature study in nature. No snakes, frogs, birds, or turtles were to be captured. The camp organizers were deeply committed to the notion that wild things were wild, and belonged in the wild as their birthright. But what I wanted at that moment more than anything else was to bring the turtle home with me.
I’d received a few sideways glances from boys that had passed me where I sat behind our cabin, and one of them even asked me what I was doing there. The question as usual wasn’t really a q
uestion at all. It was challenge. But this was the last day of camp, and the challenger was bored enough to accept my stock offering of nuthin’ without it being a prelude to something that would make me cry out in pain.
When the time came, I climbed aboard the bus and secured the seat two rows behind the driver, Olivier having claimed the seat directly behind him, which was the safest seat of all. Since no one wanted to sit with me, I had both seats to myself—correction; we had both seats to ourselves, Manitou and I. When I looked into the paper bag to see how he was doing, he appeared to have given up trying to climb out. He looked like he was resting. As quietly as I could, I whispered to him that we were almost home and that I’d let him out of the bag.
The counsellors and the other boys must have assumed I had a snack in the paper bag because no one asked what was inside, at least not until the bus was just outside of Ottawa. Then I felt a rough tap on my shoulder.
“Whatcha got in the bag, Brown Nose?” John Prince had lumbered down the aisle of the bus from the very back where he’d been sitting with his buddies. I’d heard them shouting and laughing almost since we’d left Camp Manitou. He smacked me on the back on my head. “You got food in that bag, Brown Nose? Huh? You got candy?”
I closed the bag and put it to my side and used my body to block access to it. “No,” I said. “Nothing. I don’t have any food. No candy.”
When John Prince laughed, it was a snarling sound full of teeth and phlegm. “Yeah, you’re ‘know-nuthin’ all right, retard. Whatcha got in the bag?” he demanded again. “Show me.” Prince shoved me to the side and took the bag in a chapped hand. He opened it and looked in. His eyes widened. “Hey, it’s a fuckin’ turtle! Brown Nose kidnapped a fuckin’ turtle!” He laughed again, showing all his yellow teeth. He reached inside and took Manitou out, bringing the small creature right up to his face. For one horrible moment I was sure Prince was going to eat him, was going to tear Manitou’s head off with those teeth and crack his shell with his jaws. The turtle’s legs were kicking helplessly in the air and its head swayed from side to side in terror. Prince swung Manitou through the air between his thumb and index finger like a child with a model airplane.
“Give him back to me!” I screamed. “You’re scaring him! Give him to me!”
Prince said, “Make me, Brown Nose. I fuckin’ dare you. Make me.”
The bus driver half-turned. He shouted, “Sit down, you two! Get back to your seats right now, or I’ll pull this bus right over to the side of the road till the police come, you hear me? And then you’ll be headed straight for reform school!”
But of course, it was too late for any of that.
Prince swung Manitou through the air, making vroom vroom airplane noises as he did. His friends in the back seat all laughed as though it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen. A few of them started to clap, and one of them—I didn’t see which one—said, Throw it! Let’s see if turtles can fly!
What happened next is still a bit unclear after all these years, but my memory is that I had glanced up at the driver’s rear-view mirror and seen nothing in it but clouds.
In one second, the mirror reflected the entire rear aisle of the bus and the faces of forty shouting, jeering prepubescent boys; in the next, it went blank, the view—if it could even be called that—was something akin to looking out the window on one of those mornings in late fall, right before winter, when the fog lies as thickly on the glass as white paint.
Then my vision blurred. I tasted blood in my mouth, and the world was reduced to the sweet music of Prince’s screams. I found myself standing up in my seat with a handful of Prince’s hair in my fist, smashing his head against the metal bar of the seat. I felt the vibration of the impact thrum up my forearm. I was possessed of a sudden, vicious strength that was so entirely unlike me that I felt myself observing the scene as though from a distance. It was a dark and delicious, even voluptuous, violence that lifted me up above myself on black wings.
It occurred to me that Prince sounded much less terrifying with blood from the gash over his eye smearing the chrome and the cheap vinyl upholstery of the bus seat. I loved the sound of his screaming. I loved it. I adored it with a barbarism that was entirely alien to my nature. I wanted to lick the air around him and taste that sound. Then I was punching him in the face, hitting his nose, his forehead, and his chin.
The bus swerved as the driver pulled over to the side of the road and the boys were all screaming, Fight! Fight! Fight! But there was an undercurrent of awe beneath it all, because someone had changed the rules of dominance, neglecting to tell John Prince or his friends that the impossible had occurred, and Brown Nose was going to kill him unless someone pulled them apart.
At the roadside, the bus diver did just that. He pulled the bus to a stop and broke up the fight, though “fight” was a bit of misnomer: Prince was out cold and his face looked as though someone had swished it around in a tub of blood. It would be closer to the truth to say that the driver pulled me off Prince, and Prince slid to the ground like someone had poured him from a pitcher.
I looked down at his hands: they were empty. The paper bag was crumpled under the seat across the aisle where Prince had kicked it during his struggle. I looked around for Manitou, but I didn’t see him anywhere nearby. I shrugged out of the driver’s tight grip, kneeled down on the floor of the bus, and looked under the seats.
I stood up and stared at the now dead-silent bus. “Where’s my turtle?” Silence answered me. The other boys seemed transfixed by the blood, still trying to reconcile what they had just seen, the utter demolishment of Camp Manitou’s Goliath by the unlikeliest possible David. “Where’s my fucking turtle? If anything happened to him, I’ll fucking kill you guys!”
The bus driver shoved me back down into my seat. He pointed his finger at me, then jabbed his finger into my chest for emphasis. It hurt when he did that. “You sit down and shut up, you crazy little freak. You don’t move. Boy, you’re in some kind of trouble.” He looked down at Prince, who was moaning and starting to regain consciousness. Then back at me. His face was a mixture of adult fury, worry, and a grudging sort of admiration. At least it felt like admiration, though I could have been wrong about that, too. “Jesus fuck,” he said. Then, to the other boys: “Okay, you bozos, what’s this about a turtle? Did one of you take his turtle?” He looked back at me. “What the hell . . . was this about a goddamned turtle? Seriously? A goddamned turtle? Do you two little fucks know how dangerous it is to fight on a bus?”
“The turtle is mine,” I said weakly. “He’s just a little turtle I found in the swamp. A midland painted turtle.” It was as though by naming the turtle’s species and genus, I might make it easier for the driver to either locate Manitou on the floor, alive, or else identify his remains if one of these other monsters had done the unspeakable while I was taking apart their leader. I felt everything—the rage, the strength, the fight, the pleasure in the blood and the pain—rise up out of my body and dissipate like vapour. I was lightheaded with it. It was as though an entirely different being had abruptly taken leave of its temporary occupancy of my body and left me with what I had started with before the possession. A sting of tears pricked my eyes. “John was going to hurt him. He took him out of the bag and he was waving him around like an airplane. Manitou was really scared.”
“Manitou!” The driver gave me a look of fury leavened with frustration, perhaps even sympathy. But when he addressed the bus full of dumbstruck boys in the bus, there was no sympathy, just anger. “Everyone look on the ground, and under your seats. If there is a turtle there, alive or dead, bring him to me right now.” The boys all scrambled to obey the driver, obviously grateful for something to do to break the tension. They dove onto the floor of the bus and peered under their seats. “You,” he said to me, pointing again. “Don’t move a goddamned muscle.”
Finally, a boy in the back I didn’t recognize shouted out, “Sir, I found him!” He held up Mani
tou, who kicked his legs in the air. My relief—for I’d had visions of the turtle’s crushed shell and limbs—was so all-encompassing that I felt as though the air had been sucked out of me.
“Bring that thing up here,” the driver told the boy. “And give it to this kid,” he added, pointing at me. “Right now.”
The boy hurried up the aisle and handed Manitou to me, not looking me in the eye as he did it. I cupped both hands like a crèche and he deposited the turtle’s little body into them. As gently as I could, I retrieved the paper bag and put Manitou back inside. The boy hurried to the back of the bus, still not looking at me.
I could feel, if not actually hear, the collective exhalation of breath when the driver helped Prince to his feet and Prince shrugged him off with a defiant, if bruised I’m fine, Jesus Christ, leave me alone! before limping down the aisle back to his friends in the back row. But Prince didn’t look at me, either, and no one bothered me on the last forty-five minutes of the bus ride back home.
The bus driver came to my defence at the terminal when Mrs. Prince saw her son’s battered face and began to scream. Cold-eyed and red-haired like her son, it was apparent even to me where his splenetic temperament came from. She swept him up in her arms as though he were an injured refugee from a lifeboat suddenly reunited with his lover.
“Your boy started it with this boy, ma’am,” the driver said when she wheeled on him and demanded to know what had happened to her baby. I saw Prince wince at the word baby, which made me smile in spite of myself. But I was in no way confident enough to laugh at him, however much I wanted to. The driver continued. “He came up behind him and smacked him in the head. And he took this boy’s pet turtle away. The boy’s reaction was maybe too . . . impulsive. But your boy started the fight. No question about that at all.”
“My Johnny is a good boy. He would never have started a fight with this little brat. This boy must have started it—look, he doesn’t even have a scratch on him. What kind of camp are you people running anyway? Where are this boy’s parents? Where?” Mrs. Prince turned to the throng of parents and called out shrilly, “Who are the parents of this boy?” She plucked the sleeve of a random passing brown-haired man in a madras summer jacket who looked nothing like me. “You? Are you his father?”
Wild Fell Page 8
