by Susan Wiggs
A door slammed and Freddy strode into the room. “Working hard, kids?”
They broke apart, and he could see the color pouring into Olivia’s cheeks. Connor grinned at Freddy. “That wasn’t hard at all. But I need to get going.” He strode out to the yard, where his Harley was parked, and was surprised when Olivia followed him. He strapped on his gear, piece by piece, but kept his eyes on her.
“What?” she asked.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were staring.”
“I still am.” He let a slow smile unfurl.
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
He looked at her a moment longer. When she blushed, she looked younger, more vulnerable, more like a girl he once knew. “Do you ever think about us, Lolly?” he asked. “About the way we used to be?”
The blush turned an even deeper shade of red. “No,” she said emphatically. “Not any more than I think about anything else from nine years ago.”
Of course. It was a reminder that they didn’t know each other at all anymore. With unhurried movements, he zipped his leather jacket. “I’d better go get ready for my unexpected company.”
“I never would have picked you out as the biker type,” she said.
“Sure you would have,” he said, and let the motor drown out her reply.
CAMP KIOGA SUMMER EVENING SAIL
One of the most beloved traditions at Camp Kioga is the weekly summer evening sail on Willow Lake. There is no better way to enjoy a peaceful Catskills sunset. Campers are instructed to gather on the dock promptly at 7:30 p.m.
Eleven
Summer 1993
It was Connor Davis’s third year at camp, and he knew it would be his last. For one thing, he was going into eighth grade next year and after that was high school, and his mom and Mel always said guys in high school got jobs, period. For another thing, he didn’t know what in holy hell to do about his dad, and coming here each summer, watching Terry Davis stagger and stumble through his days, the laughingstock of the camp, made Connor feel pissed off at the world.
Living with Mel and his mom pissed him off, too, but it was different with his dad. Because here was the saddest, sickest thing of all. Connor loved his dad. Terry Davis was a good man with a bad problem, and Connor just didn’t know how the hell to fix things for him.
What the fuck, he thought. It’s my last summer at Camp Kioga. I’m going to make the most of it. He made a mental list of things he wanted to do. Win the quadrathalon. Go rock climbing at the Shawangunks. Do the wilderness-survival trek, where you had to spend two days on your own with nothing but a compass. Maybe take on Tarik in a chess tournament. Get his ear pierced, just to tick off his stepdad. Kiss a girl and feel her up. Maybe even get to third base or score a home run.
Yeah, he wanted to do all that and more. When school started in the fall and he had to write the requisite “How I Spent My Summer Vacation,” he wanted it to sound so cool, his teacher would think he was making it up.
On the way to the dining hall, he saw Mr. Bellamy, the camp dean and owner, an older guy with a craggy face and a voice like Lawrence Olivier in those old black-and-white movies.
“Hello, sir,” he said, squaring his shoulders and holding out his hand. “Connor Davis.”
“Of course, Davis. I remember you well. How are you, son?”
“Excellent, sir.” What the hell else would he say? That his life was shit, that he still missed his baby brother every day, that he hated his stepfather, hated living in a trailer park in frigging Buffalo? His mother, who had spent his entire childhood dreaming of a career onstage, had taught him to be a good faker, so he pasted on a grin. “It’s good to be back, Mr. Bellamy. I really want to thank you and Mrs. Bellamy for letting me come.”
“Nonsense, son, Jane and I consider it a privilege to have you here.”
Yeah, right. Whatever.
“Well, anyway. I’m real grateful.” He wished there was some way to show the Bellamys his appreciation. He couldn’t think of a thing, though. These people had everything. There was all that Bellamy-family money. And they had the camp, this amazing place in the wilderness where you could stand on a mountaintop and touch the stars. And they had each other, and a bunch of grandchildren who were nuts about them, and they had a perfect, sweet life. There wasn’t a thing Connor Davis could offer them.
The first night’s supper was always a feast, and this year was no exception. Connor sat at a long table with his cabinmates, a loud gang of guys in all shapes and sizes. They consumed huge amounts of something called beef Wellington, guzzled big pitchers of milk. Even kids who didn’t normally like vegetables went for the steamed broccoli and tossed salad at camp. For dessert, they had the renowned berry pies from the Sky River Bakery.
“Didja see the hottie who drives the bread truck?” asked Alex Dunbar, who occupied the bunk under Connor.
Connor shook his head. From his perspective, pretty much everyone with an X chromosome was a hottie. Lately, he had this almost feverish sex drive, one that made him feel like a maniac inside.
“She’s this high-school girl, looks just like Wynona Ryder.” Dunbar reached for the big bowl of buttered potatoes. “Her name’s Jenny Majesky, I found out that much. Now all I have to do is find out how to get her to—”
“Hey, Dunbar.” Their counselor, Rourke McKnight, propped his foot on the bench between Dunbar and Connor. “Word to the wise.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Dunbar tried to act cool, but Connor knew he was intimidated by McKnight. Everyone in Fort Niagara Cabin was. Though just out of high school, McKnight had this hard edge, a scary side that might or might not be a put-on. None of the guys in Niagara wanted to get on his bad side.
“Don’t finish that thought,” McKnight said. “Not about Miss Majesky or anyone else of the female persuasion. Got it?”
“Sure,” Dunbar said, glowering. “Got it.”
“Good.”
When McKnight was gone, Dunbar snickered. “He’s probably doing her himself.”
“He hears you talking like that,” said Cramer, who sat across the table, “he’ll do you, and it won’t be pretty.”
The stupid joshing and joking started up again, but Connor wasn’t listening. When it came to his dad, he had this weird sixth sense. He felt his scalp prickle, felt something like a cool shadow sweep over him. Then he heard it. The crash of breaking glass.
Without asking to be excused, he flung his napkin on the table and bolted for the door. Sure enough, there was his father in the foyer, standing there looking totally bewildered at a glass ceiling fixture, which now lay shattered at the base of a stepladder.
“Dad, you all right?” Connor murmured, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.
“Justa little blood,” Terry Davis said, swaying ever so slightly on his feet as he studied the back of his hand. “All I was doing was changing the dadgum lightbulb.”
Connor’s heart sank. He was such an idiot. Every year he hoped this wouldn’t happen, but every year it did. His father smelled like a malt-liquor brewery, and the worst part of it was, he tried to pretend everything was fine.
Inevitably, the crash had brought curious onlookers. Most of them didn’t know Connor and Terry Davis were related. Terry always told Connor not to advertise that fact, but it made Connor feel totally weird to pretend.
“Hey, how many drunks does it take to change a lightbulb?” some kid asked. “One to pour the martinis, and another to read him the directions in twelve steps.”
Connor cringed inwardly, but didn’t let it show as he leveled a deadly glare at the kid. He knew it was deadly because he’d spent all his middle-school years perfecting it. Often it was his only defense. “Back off,” he said.
“What’s it to you?” the kid challenged.
“Yeah,” another kid said, “what’s your problem?”
“Go sit down.” The order came from Rourke McKnight, who appeared in the doorway, drawing himself up to his full height, well over six feet. Hi
s appearance caused the kids to scatter. “I’ll clean this up.”
“No, wait,” Terry Davis protested, “I gotta change that lightbulb. I gotta—”
“Hey, Mr. Davis, that’s a pretty bad cut. Let me go with you to the infirmary and we’ll clean it up.” Out of nowhere, Lolly Bellamy showed up. Earlier in the day, Connor had barely had time to say hi to her, but he’d nodded at her from across the room. She was the last person in the world he pictured himself being friends with, but he was glad to see her. Over the past couple of summers, they’d become friends, sort of. He liked her because she was funny and smart and genuine. And because she was the kind of person to take his dad by the arm and lead him out the door and to the infirmary, talking the whole time, calmly averting disaster.
Humbled by her simple act of kindness, and too grateful for words, he followed them into the pristine office, which had a well-stocked medical cabinet and four cots, made up with crisp white sheets. Lolly’s manner was brisk as she turned on the tap. “Just hold your hand under that, Mr. Davis. We need to make sure there’s no glass in the cut.”
“Yeah,” said Connor’s dad. “You bet.”
Connor knew she was all but bathed in the brewery smell, but she didn’t flinch as she cleaned the wound, sprayed antiseptic on it and applied a neat bandage.
“I surely thank you,” Terry said. “You’re a reg’lar Florence Nightingale.”
Lolly beamed at him. “Yep, that’s me.”
While she put away the supplies, Connor said, “Listen, Dad, why don’t you go on home. You want me to help you?”
“Hell, no.” Terry looked glum. “I think I know my way home after all this time.”
“Home” for Terry Davis was the year-round caretaker’s cottage at the edge of the camp. It had the advantage of being on the premises, so he didn’t have to drive to it. That was one worry Connor wouldn’t have tonight. His dad already had a DUI, and another one would land him in jail.
“You want me to come with you?” Connor offered.
“Hell, no,” his dad said again. He seemed ticked off now, and stomped out of the infirmary without another word, slamming the door behind him.
Connor didn’t move. Neither did Lolly. He didn’t look at her, but felt her nearby, waiting. Breathing softly. And all of a sudden, it was too much—her kindness, her complete acceptance of the situation, her refusal to make a big deal of something so huge that it was ruling his life. Connor felt the humiliating burn of tears in his throat and eyes, and knew he was about to lose it. “I need to go,” he mumbled, groping for the door handle.
“Okay” was all she said.
There was a world of meaning in her “okay.” Connor was pretty sure she knew he realized that. She was Lolly, after all. Even though they were only summer friends, she understood him better than anyone else in his life, maybe even himself. The notion made him drop his hand. He’d conquered his emotions. Four years of living with Mel had taught him to do that. Never show emotion, because some asshole is bound to make you regret it.
I hate this, he thought. I hate it when my dad drinks.
“Know what I feel like doing?” he asked Lolly all of a sudden.
“Putting your fist through a wall?” she suggested.
He couldn’t help flashing a rueful grin. God, she did know him. Then the grin faded and words he’d never dare utter to another soul came out before he could even stop them. “I wish the bastard would stop,” he said. “I wish he’d just get sober and be himself. If he did that, I wouldn’t care what else he did with his life. He can play cribbage and build birdhouses all day, for all I care, just so long as he quits drinking.”
“Maybe he will one day,” she said, not at all perturbed by what he’d said. “My grandmother Lightsey—that’s my mom’s mom—is an alcoholic, but she doesn’t drink now and she goes to these special meetings at her church. My mom acts like it’s this big family secret, but I don’t know why that is. I’m proud of my grandmother for getting better.”
He couldn’t decide whether or not he was glad she’d told him that. On the one hand, it gave him hope that maybe his dad would change. On the other hand, it seemed so unlikely that his father would simply make up his mind to quit drinking and go to meetings that Connor felt like a fool, wishing it could happen.
“I don’t know why your grandparents keep him on,” Connor muttered. “It’s not like he’s this totally reliable worker.”
She frowned behind her glasses. “He never told you?”
“Told me what?”
“God, Connor, you should let him tell it. Or my granddad. Your grandfather and mine were in the Korean War together. Your grandfather saved my grandfather’s life.”
Connor had never known his grandfather, whose name had been Edward Davis. “I knew he’d been killed in Korea when my dad was a baby, but that’s all my dad ever said.”
“You ought to ask my granddad. There’s this whole big story about how they were fighting in something called the Walled City, and your grandfather saved a whole platoon, my granddad included. So when my granddad got back from the war, he made a promise that he’d always look after your grandfather’s family, no matter what.”
Even if Edward Davis’s son grew up to be a drunk, Connor thought. Yet somehow, Lolly’s story made him feel marginally better.
“So anyway,” she said, in her semi-annoying, bossy way, “you should ask my granddad to tell you the story.”
“I might,” he said.
They were quiet for a long time after that. Then he crossed to the supply cabinet and slid open a white enamel drawer. “I was thinking of piercing my ear.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Now he let out an actual laugh. She was so funny when she got all formal like that. “I was just thinking I’m going to pierce my ear.”
“You’re completely insane.”
“You don’t think I’d dare?” In the drawer, he found a lancet in a sterile packet. “This ought to work.” He started to rip the packet open with his teeth.
“Wait.” She looked wild-eyed with fright now, her glasses comically askew on her face. “Don’t be stupid, Connor. You don’t need any more holes in your head than you already have.”
“If that’s the case, then one more won’t matter.” He paused, digging in his pocket for the small silver hoop earring he’d been carrying around for weeks, trying to get up the nerve to go for it. Mary Lou Carruthers, who’d had a crush on him since second grade, had given it to him last year. The hoop was attached to a black plastic card. He pried it off and set it on the counter.
“You can’t be serious,” Lolly said. Her cheeks were bright red.
“Serious as a heart attack,” he said.
“You’ll get an infection. Your ear will fall off.”
“Bullshit. People pierce their ears all the time.”
“At the doctor’s, or they get it done by a professional.”
“Or they get some smart-alecky girl to do it.”
“No way,” she said, taking a step back and shaking her head. She no longer wore her hair in brown pigtails, but had it in some kind of knot held with a cloth-covered elastic. Stray locks sprang free, curling around her face.
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
“We could both get expelled.”
“Only if we get caught. We’re not going to get caught, Lolly.” He opened the lancet and leaned toward the mirror. Shit. This wasn’t as simple as he’d thought. If he poked the lancet through his ear, what would stop it from poking a hole in his skull? And once it was through, was there going to be blood? And how the heck did you get the earring in?
In the mirror, he saw Lolly watching him. All right, no backing down. He’d give it a swift poke and hope for the best. He took a breath and held it. Caught himself squeezing his eyes shut. No, that wouldn’t do. He had to see what he was doing.
Behind him, he heard a snapping sound and almost dropped the lancet. It was Lolly, putting on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. �
��All right, Boy Wonder,” she said. “Don’t blame me if your ear turns black and falls off.”
FISHING ON WILLOW LAKE
Willow Lake is an abundant source of delicious trout. The limit is three trout per licensed sportsman. Over and above that, catch and release is required.
Twelve
“Come on, lazy Daisy! Rise and shine.”
When Daisy heard that phony, cheerful note in her dad’s voice, she knew it couldn’t mean anything good. He was outside the bunkhouse she shared with him and Max, and it was still dark. She heard his footstep on the porch, heard the door creak open. “Daze?” he cajoled. “Come on, kiddo. It’s time.”
“No,” she moaned very softly, burying her head under the pillow. Couldn’t he see that it was not even the crack of dawn? Not even the precrack. What in the world made people so eager to wake up early? Maybe if she didn’t respond, he would give up and go away.
No such luck. The tapping became more insistent and the screen door creaked on its hinges as he opened it. Oh, crap, thought Daisy. He’s coming in. He’s not giving up on me.
“Crap,” she muttered aloud, the lovely numbness of sleep now driven completely out of her. Forcing herself awake, she crept out of bed and picked a path around piles of clothes strewn about, books and decks of cards, soda cans and food wrappers.
“Daisy?” he said again, a hulking silhouette in the doorway.
“I’m up, Dad. Geez. Don’t make so much noise.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait right outside.”
“Great.”
“Don’t be long.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The last thing she wanted to do was to go on some sort of predawn outing with her dad. Fishing, ugh. He’d been after her ever since they got here to do all this stupid family-bonding stuff, and very quickly, she had run out of ways to avoid him. There were few places to hide at Camp Kioga without getting lost in the forest or attacked by mosquitoes.
