Death and Love at the Old Summer Camp

by Dolores Maggiore

  “What else is new? My neck is so sore from my mother!” I flipped back at her, chewing on a pine needle.

  “C’mon, my father’s usually cool.”

  She was right. Dr. Ron McGuilvry, Doc to me, was really neat, for a dad. I even liked his white bucks and madras Bermudas – something my father wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  “Okay, what’d he do?”

  “Man! He almost had a cow when I asked about the old boys’ camp. I just thought it’d be a blast to hear his stories from when he was a counselor there.”

  “Really? I don’t know, Katie.” I was getting that squirming feeling in my stomach like this might be quicksand Katie was pulling me into.

  “When I asked him to help us get into all the old cabins, he really blew his stack. I swore we hadn’t been poking around.” Katie bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to give anything away.”

  “Shoot! Listen, don’t say another word to him. It’s kind of our thing. Got it?”

  “Well, he kind of flipped, like out of the blue,” Katie said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Like I said, ‘mum.’ But let’s get out of the sap we’re sitting in and back to the scene of the crime.” I slapped Katie on the back, laughing, but I wasn’t really joking.

  In a few minutes, we had slipped into my parents’ cabin to grab a composition notebook. We had to search for it a bit, because my family’s things were always helter-skelter. My room was the sitting room, having the luxury of the Ben Franklin wood-burning stove in this budget, bare-walled cabin – not like Katie’s folks’ almost palatial deluxe cabin.

  Notebook in hand, we dated the first page, Wed., June 26, 1959, 1:57 P.M. On the cover, we printed in bold letters ‘The Case of the?’

  We decided to go to the latrine to study the latrine walls. Of course, we named the log ‘The Writing on the Wall.’ Katie started taking notes. Her handwriting was a better “Catholic school style” than my left-handed hieroglyphics. We scanned the warped walls of the latrine inch by inch. Katie copied everything.

  “For a good time, call Butch.”

  We saw the Brylcreem ad, ‘Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya.’

  “Yeah, a little jab’ll do ya, yeah, like Butch.”

  “Butch, my ass.”

  “Yes, little one, watch your ass!”

  Then there was the heart - ‘Ron and Regina’

  “Do you think that’s your dad?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Nah. I don’t know.” Katie tucked her chin in and yawned. “But we could write in the margin, ‘who are Ron and Regina?’”

  We scooted away from the latrine through the wooded slope, gliding in the dried needles, moccasins skidding on the terrain.

  “Whatd’ya think - not too dark today to go down the channel by the old beach?” Katie asked.

  “You mean all the way to the dam?” I stretched my neck and yawned, feigning exhaustion. I didn’t want Katie to know I was scared of the water over there.

  “The creepy dam…with its wonderful collection of arachnids.”

  “Stop,” I said. “You know I hate spiders.”

  “Spiders, nothing…” said Katie, waving me off.

  “Bug off, or I will never show you the knife.” I tried to bargain with her.

  “Let’s get going, and you can show me the knife in the canoe in case I have to stab a big, bad spider.” Katie straightened up, and pulled her hair behind her ears.

  “I’m going to dunk you,” I threatened as I started singing Splish Splash.

  “Nah, c’mon.”

  I eased the knife out of my pocket. I rubbed the initials B.C. and handed it forward to Katie.

  Katie put the notebook under her jacket to accept my offering. The knife seemed to throb and jerk forward in my hands. She opened the blade slowly, uncrumbling some dried gunk and tested the blade.

  “Ouch!”

  I sat up instantly. I thought Katie had really hurt herself. She turned too quickly and—oops, girls overboard. Katie and I both splashed into the lake.

  I gurgled, tasting the swampy water. “Save the book!”

  Katie grabbed onto the gunnels. I swam and steered the canoe through the somewhat slimy, oil-slicked water back to shore. We were both safe, the book and knife too. We got back in the canoe and retrieved the paddle with a deep sucking sound from the clay muck.

  Phew! What a stink! Flotsam and jetsam swirled in the water when I pulled up the paddle. Old, rotten leaves and shreds of canvas, a shirt? I prodded at the debris with the paddle. No, not a shirt…something solid, but spongy. Fighting back the urge to puke, I finally pushed and jabbed until I discovered parts of a raft.

  “Huh? That’s weird,” I said. It looked like the one beached by the shooting gallery, but how could one of these have sunk?

  We paddled slowly and rested a bit. I was not happy to be all the way down here at this end of the channel, full of years of rotting leaves, scum, and parts of motors. Dark branches cloaked the sky; they snagged at our clothes and limbs, drawing blood. Bugs appeared to feast on us. We were both scummy from our tumble in the lake, still wearing our clinging, mud-encrusted clam diggers and spongy, squirting Keds. My humor was dark, at best.

  “Why are we going this far down the channel, Katie?” I hoped she was bored and uncomfortable. I was cranky because I hadn’t confided more of my grandmother’s story to her yet.

  She replied, “Still too much sun and heat where we are. We’ll go to the hatchery at the very end. Besides, we can wash up there.”

  “I’ll take the canoe out just this side of the dam. Okay? Go, get onto the bank and tie us up,” I said.

  Katie was definitely off-kilter. She had slipped her footing by about a yard. One foot pressed into the dark sand on the bank and the other, about six inches lower, into the thick, oozing water.

  “I, uh, can’t move, I can’t, my foot is stuck,” said Katie.

  Pushing and knocking rocks away, I helped Katie pry her foot out as some flotsam rose to the surface. It was a shirt cuff. We yanked; the material shredded and gave way. It kept on coming – first, a sleeve. It was plaid and gray-green, caked with mud and rust.

  “That’s strange. Who left their shirt?” Katie asked me.

  It was strange, but we were filthy and slimy. I couldn’t think about the mysterious shirt just then.

  I shrugged. “Let’s go to the hatchery. There’s a drinking fountain and a faucet there.”

  We stowed our book and the shirt in the canoe and walked the two hundred feet to the hatchery. The parks guy greeted us. He saw our mucky clothes and joked about fish that live in the muck. Maybe we were leeches, he said. We used the hatchery’s water to clean ourselves up a bit.

  “Hey, when do you want to look at the shreds?” Katie asked on the ride back, referring to the shirt we’d found.

  “Maybe it’s an old-time trapper’s or…” I knew it was something important when each thread seemed to wiggle in my hand, just like the peculiar aliveness I felt in the knife. “Let’s look at it when we get back to the beach.”

  Anxious to investigate the piece of plaid history, we immediately beached, dried off in the sun, and stretched out with our wiggling toes in the sand. Carefully we unfolded the pieces of the shirt. The right front panel was all in one piece; also, the right sleeve. The right pocket was partly torn off, but a shredded hole went clear to the bottom of the panel. Weird, like it was all rust colored and brittle, but not oil-slicked like the rest.

  “Katie, could you sew it, or just attach the parts? We can see how big it is and ask someone how old the material might be.”

  “No sweat. I’ll dry it first and ask to borrow the treadle machine. I love that thing. Did you ever notice the pattern on the treadle? Like snakes,” said Katie.

  “You and your snakes.”

  I gave Katie a playful shove. She shoved back and started massaging my ribs.

  “Ha! I’m the sewing machine, vibrating through every part of your body. Your teeth will begin to chatter.”r />
  I rolled over, doubling up with laughter – and maybe more. I just adored Katie’s silly side.

  Chapter Three

  AT THE REC HALL

  “You here?”

  Katie’s voice woke me, almost jostling me off the back window seat at the rec hall. I had fallen asleep after breakfast.

  “Life just seems frozen here,” I said, yawning.

  “Frozen? Maybe it’s the chilly fog this morning. Lake’s almost got a veil.”

  “Doofus, I mean, like everything stops, everything is the same. That dart board looks like they were just in the middle of a game in 1939.”

  “We weren’t even born yet. It’s like your dream stuff.”

  “No, it’s just I’m ‘sensitive.’ At home, I can feel, well, I know how things were in my house when it was built in 1917 – I’ve seen the owners, the Hamiltons, but not in real life. Real old fogies, tall and bony, and uptight. They had a child who died. I kind of heard the crying. I also saw my parents going to buy it in 1949. It’s as if I knew how things had gone on and what would happen next.” Uh oh. I saw Katie’s eyes dart about.

  “Katie, please don’t think I’m weird.”

  “I don’t, but it’s kind of scary too. I do want to know. I want to be in on it, too.”

  I watched her grimace, a tender, dear smile, distorted by something else, the remnants of fear, disgust?

  “Oh, Katie, it’s just me, the same me as before.”

  Same as before? Yeah. I didn’t like when things changed. If this new part of me scared her, what would she think about my other…changes? I couldn’t deny that I had this…crush on her. What would she think of a queer? I mean, queers were like bloodsuckers, like that girl Janet who came to my sleepover last year. Man, she was trying to smooch all over me. Lucky for me, we locked her in the bathroom. Jeez. I wasn’t like that. Was I?

  “Where’d you go?” Katie asked. “You went Sleeping Beauty on me…I know it’s the same you.” She tried to soothe my thoughts from before.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking about our case,” I lied. “Let’s grab the log; we’ve got to keep track of what we know.”

  “Right,” said Katie, still staring at me with huge question marks blinking in her eyes. “I’ll get the log.”

  Our Notes:

  -Some boys, older boys: one, a bully, the other, a lady-killer

  -younger, scared boy

  -hearts and pictures of Katie’s father (on the rec hall walls)

  “Leave him out of this,” said Katie.

  “You said he was being really weird about this camp,” I reminded her, “and the heart? It did say Ron.”

  “Shut up! He’s my father,” said Katie. “Besides, he never loved anyone but my mom.”

  “Okay, okay, and the tooth fairy?”

  “Quit it,” said Katie.

  “Right. Hey, maybe we need a break. I’m feeling kinda sleepy.” I decided to change the subject and the mood. “Wanna take a nap or just lie out in the sun?”

  “Gosh, Pina, you really are becoming Sleeping Beauty.” Katie laughed as she pushed me out the creaking door.

  Baking in the sun, I pretended sleep. Something bugged me. Katie’s dad was all over this camp, and Katie was intentionally keeping him out of the picture. She seemed afraid that her dad might actually know something about all this.

  Pretend sleep drifted towards the real thing. This mid-afternoon grass felt warm and safe. Even the dirt felt right. The sound of golfers on the other side of the white pines grew distant. I lost track of Katie, who had gone off to gather berries. The sun was like a big purple blotch under my eyelids, and soon I forgot everything.

  I was aware of the earth thumping, of pounding, like a bunch of people running hard. Giggles and words like “jerk” and “jackass” and a stronger thump. Two ten-year-olds were play-wrestling at my feet. One called the other Billy, tickling him. Billy squealed and shoved “Wolfgang” playfully. Sitting up, Billy jerked Wolfgang’s head.

  “C’mon, seriously, would you stick up for me? Like not let me get hurt?” said Billy.

  “Who’s going to hurt you? He’s a jerk, but he won’t do anything really bad.”

  “Hey, Wolfie, what if he’s already doing something bad?”

  “Well, tell someone, someone important, like the director.”

  “Director’s a pervert.”

  “That’s a rumor. C’mon let’s get ice cream.” Wolfie got up, and Billy followed.

  I woke with a start, feeling a cold dribble down my chin. I dreamt about butter crunch ice cream. No, I dreamt I was wrestling. I felt the pebbles and heard the hollow banging of the rec hall door as the old panes rattled in their casements, most of the putty gone. I opened my eyes to see Katie coming at me with the catcher’s mitt full of blueberries.

  “Pina! You all right? You’re absolutely white.”

  Katie was down on her knees by my side. Her hand on my forehead felt so good, and the heady smell of the blueberries roasting in the sun made me hesitate to break the spell.

  I ran my fingers on the stubble of the dried weeds and looked into her eyes. I had to trust her.

  “Katie,” I started. “I just had a…well, you know, I saw things.”

  “Yeah?” She extended the mitt of berries towards me. She looked nervous.

  “The little kid, Billy…” I said.

  “Yeah, go on.”

  “Well, maybe someone…” I munched some blueberries. “Maybe someone is really bugging…I mean…” I stumbled and blurted the words out all at once, “Pervert – maybe there’s a pervert.”

  Katie blanched and stared blankly off to the view of Sebago Lake on the horizon. She patted my wrist and mumbled, “It was a dream, Pina, just a dream.”

  She muttered about having to do something before lunch – I couldn’t quite make out what – and ran off, leaving me alone to chew on grass and worry.

  Outside the dining hall a few minutes before the lunch gong, Katie bounced in front of me, balancing from foot to foot.

  “Pick a tree,” she said, pointing to the big yellow pines by the tennis court directly in front of the hall. “There’s a hidden message for you after lunch.”

  I had been looking at Katie quite a bit lately, and with her dancing in front of me like this, there was a lot to look at. Her pullover top was bouncing too. I didn’t know if the message I was receiving was the hidden message she had intended to send.

  The BLTs never went down so quickly. I was out of the warm, pine-smoked dining hall in a hiccup. Katie followed and snatched the bundle from under the tree. The bundle unfurled into a plaid flag-like shirt; it was a bit sappy from its time under the tree. Katie had reattached the pieces so it actually looked like something to be worn again. Without blinking, I pulled it out of Katie’s hands to examine it closer.

  I started to slip the shirt on, but just as I was buttoning the top button, Katie lunged for me.

  “Hey, me first,” she said.

  I jerked away, but Katie just managed to snag it. I felt her nails dig into my chest, drawing blood and a sharp pain. I heard a slight tearing sound where she had grabbed me.

  “Look,” I said. ”You made me stain the shirt.” Droplets of blood started to seep through the chest.

  “It kind of matches the rust stains on it.” Katie grimaced. “I really hurt you.”

  “No, I’m okay.” The blood – and the rust – confused me. “Here,” I said, almost ripping the shirt off. “Try it on.”

  As Katie put the shirt on, I stared long and hard.

  “Katie, look, did you cut it by the pocket?” There was a hole right over the chest again, just like when we’d found it.

  I looked down at my chest, where Katie had drawn blood. There was a large welt now, only it didn’t look like scratch marks from Katie’s nails. It looked more as if a sharp branch had poked deep into my skin. I was overcome with uneasiness at the sight.

  “Katie, can we just put the shirt away for now? It’s kind of creepy.”
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  Katie took it off slowly. We looked at each other and, without a word of explanation, just started running. I think we just needed to do something really physical.

  We chased each other over to the camp cabins. Finally exhausted, we dropped to the ground in front of the older cabins and decided to explore one we didn’t know at all.

  Getting down to this cabin was tricky. The door was locked, so we had to slide down the slope to crawl through the lattice that surrounded the basement. Spider webs were all over and glass shimmered all over the dirt floor. The cupboards pulled away from the frame. We hesitated to go much further. It looked spooky. I saw a mouse and froze in place.

  Katie noticed that the “basement” connected two cabins. Light came from some more latticework on the other side. As we drew closer to investigate, something fell from a nook in the lattice.

  “What is that?” I pointed to the whitish object on the ground.

  “A piece of paper. It’s all balled up. Yuck. It fell next to something awful. Is that dog poop or people poop?” Katie pointed to a petrified white and brown turd.

  “Oh, yuck! Hey look, there’s a trap door in the floor above it. Here, use the stick. Did you get it?”

  Katie started getting nervous. “Got it. Can we get outta here now? Let’s go to the other cabin.”

  “Shoot, Katie! It’s gotta be a clue. Don’t go all scaredy-cat on me now!” I scrunched up my face at Katie. Why was she backing off?

  “Can’t we just go someplace else? I can’t breathe here.”

  “We’ve got to read this now. Look, if it’s about your dad—”

  “No. It’s not that. I promise.” Katie shoved the paper in her shorts pocket and sighed loudly.

  Before I knew it, Katie pulled away from me. I had to follow her—and the note. We crawled out from under the crafts cabin and scrambled up the hill, scraping our way through pine needles and dried branches. We found ourselves on the deck of another one of the cabins. The place was overgrown with shrubs and new baby pine trees. Katie continued to wriggle her way in between trunks and branches. She found a door that was cracked open that she was determined to enter; I was determined to follow her.