“You should go. Your friends will be waiting,” she said, leading him to the front door. They stood in the open doorway, and she wrapped her arms around Neil’s neck, pressing her lips against his ear. “I’ve been waiting eighteen years, don’t disappoint me.”
Chapter Eight
The whiskey he’d shared with Sammy was still warm in his stomach as Neil turned his Mercedes onto the unpaved road, the headlights sweeping across the camp’s entrance. A hundred yards further down from the caretaker’s cabin, the rustic sign still stood. Thick pine branches formed the letters of the camp’s name. He remembered the story told to the campers on their first day about the camp’s namesake: a Native American religious and political leader from the Shawnee tribe. The tale was full of grand adventures, creating an image of a peaceful, wise tribal leader, designed to instill in the young campers a sense of awe and wonder. It was all about providing a role model for the campers to follow during their week-long “journey” at Camp Tenskwatawa.
Neil knew it was all bullshit. He’d looked it up once and found that, far from being a pacifist leader, Tenskwatawa had declared that the settlers were children of the Evil Spirit and led his tribe in the Midwest into battle against them. So much for awe and wonder.
The tires dug into the soft white sand of the Pine Barrens, and the Mercedes shot forward into the camp. The forest around him seemed impenetrable with its thick underbrush, but he couldn’t tell if it was really that dense or just his eyes playing tricks in the darkness. The headlights revealed a narrow roadway leading deeper into the camp, tall pine trees lining either side. To the right, the forest opened to briefly reveal a side road leading to the camp’s recreation hall. As he passed, he caught a glimpse of a single white floodlight illuminating the white sand of the clearing in front of the building, but the blinding light made it impossible for him to see the structure from which it hung. It was the same floodlight that he remembered shooting out with a BB gun he’d smuggled into camp, forcing Charlie Wilcox to replace to the bulb again and again.
Continuing forward, the forest opened into a considerable clearing, white sand covering it from end to end. The Camp Tenskwatawa parking lot. When the camp was still open, the rule had been that no cars were allowed beyond the parking lot. The camp administrators and the caretaker had golf carts for getting around the camp. But everyone else arriving at the camp was required to leave their cars in the parking lot and walk the rest of the way.
Drifting the car to the right and then to the left, Neil swept the open space with his headlights. Three cars were parked at the far side of the clearing: a Lexus RX, a BMW 3 Series sedan, and a Ford F150. He laughed, wondering who had the pickup truck. Probably Jeremy, he thought.
Near the three parked cars, there was another sandy road leading further into the camp. A wooden post stood on either side of the opening, and at one time, a rusting chain had stretched across the opening to act as a barrier. The chain was gone, so Neil took that to mean he could go on in.
He navigated further into the camp, slowing as the ruts and potholes jolted the suspension of the Mercedes. Steve O’Reilly had said they’d be staying in Sequoia Lodge. Although he’d never spent any time in it, Neil remembered it well from his days as a counselor. Sequoia Lodge had been used for housing the cooking staff. It was larger than most of the other cabins used by the campers and counselors. Located across from the canoe launch down by the lake, Sequoia Lodge was not only centrally positioned for quick access to all the camp had to offer, but it was situated near one of the four bathhouses in the camp, making, as Steve’d said, “midnight runs to take a piss easy.”
The wooden structure soon came into view, revealing a dark colored Chevy Tahoe parked against the cabin’s side wall. From over the roof of the cabin, Neil saw smoke and fiery orange embers drifting into the tree tops; someone had a fire going. Pulling the Mercedes behind the Tahoe, he switched off the engine. As he climbed out, a tall, slim silhouette stepped around the side of the cabin and stood motionless for a moment.
“Where’ve you been?”
Steve hadn’t changed all that much. He was still tall and thin, but his jet-black hair had receded up his forehead a bit and grayed near his temples. A yellow polo hung untucked over the top of his faded blue jeans.
“You never said I had to be here at a specific time, asshole.”
They both burst out in laughter as Steve stepped around the Mercedes and extended his hand. “It’s great to see you.”
The firm handshake quickly turned into a friendly embrace, and Neil’s doubts about the weekend vanished. He’d always hated looking back at the past. He couldn’t change it, so why dwell on it? He passed on his high-school reunions, having no desire to watch people waltz around in a desperate attempt to appear more successful than they actually were. When the woman coordinating his ten-year reunion had called him to see if he’d attend, Neil told her that he “didn’t need any sycophantic adoration” from his classmates, and, as far as he was concerned, they “could all rot in hell.” He assumed that he wouldn’t be invited to the twenty-fifth.
This, however, was different. Neil and his four friends had been more than classmates, more than just high-school friends. They’d seen each other at their best and their worst. The five of them had known each other’s deepest secrets and greatest triumphs. They’d been tight, and, despite the years that had passed, he was certain that there was no need to exaggerate their pasts and accomplishments. There was no need to impress, no need to lie.
“Leave your stuff for now,” said Steve. “We’ll help you unpack later. We’ve got a fire going, and the others are waiting.”
Steve led him around to the front of the Sequoia Lodge and into a small clearing, brightly lit by a roaring campfire confined within a ring of large stones. The white-orange flames surged skyward, standing almost three feet in the air. Smoke and burning embers shot into the tree tops, looking like drifting fireflies amidst the darkened sky. Neil flinched, the intense heat biting at his face. He was certain his cheeks were lobster red, but he soon grew accustomed to the torridity, finding that it helped curb the lingering spring chill in the air.
“He’s finally here!” Steve said.
Three shadowy silhouettes emerged from the darkened fringes of the clearing, stepping into the flames’ fiery illumination. Jeremy slapped his palm against Neil’s, gripping his hand firmly and squeezing until it hurt. “You old son of a bitch, how are you?” His baritone voice was deeper than Neil remembered.
A broad smile crossed Neil’s face. “Couldn’t be better! Damn, it’s good to see you all!”
Jeremy Kirscher was still built like a football linebacker, and with a shaved head, he reminded Neil of Mr. Clean on steroids. Jeremy’s bulging biceps stretched the fabric of a black t-shirt, and gray camouflage shorts covered his muscular legs to just below the knees.
Rob was next to step forward and shake his hand. “It’s about time. We’d all but given up on you.”
Neil laughed, holding out his arms in a sweeping gesture. “You should know me better than that. I’m never rushed.”
As a teenager, Rob Ellington had been a bit on the husky side, but now he stood in the flickering fire light, trim and fit with a full head of shoulder-length blond hair. Gone was the wholesome, clean-cut image from his childhood, replaced by a shaggy tuft of hair on his chin, faded blue jeans with ripped knees, and a tattoo of a snake winding its way down his left arm from underneath the rolled-up sleeve of a plaid flannel shirt.
The last to approach, Patrick took hold of Neil’s hand, and then turned a hearty handshake into a quick embrace. His hands rapped hard on Neil’s back, and when they parted, Patrick smiled. “This weekend wouldn’t have been the same without you.”
Patrick Sizemore hadn’t changed at all. The young Casanova had held onto his youthful looks. Patrick’s well-groomed dark hair was brushed back from his forehead, and the skin on his narro
w face was taut and smooth. Neil caught the light from the blazing campfire reflected in his friend’s dark eyes, making them look as if they were on fire themselves. Blue jeans and a white t-shirt covered his trim frame as he stood with his arms folded in front of him. Gazing at Patrick through the glare of the flames left Neil with the sense of staring straight into the past.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” Steve asked.
Neil shook his head. “No. It all came back to me on the way down, like I was just here yesterday. Same small towns, same dark forest.”
“Brewster’s Donuts is closed. I saw that coming in,” said Patrick.
He’d forgotten that, because of his affinity for the place, everyone in camp had taken to calling the donut shop at the Rt. 70 circle Brewster’s Donuts. “I know! I was heartbroken when I went by this evening.”
“Someone get this man a beer!” said Rob.
Jeremy stepped to the other side of the campfire and returned moments later carrying an ice-cold bottle of Corona, complete with a slice of lime jammed into the neck. Placing the bottle to his lips, Neil tilted his head back, swallowing a large gulp. When he lowered his head again, his four companions all held bottles in their hands; Steve and Jeremy, like Neil, had Coronas, Patrick held a Coors Light, and Rob’s fingers were wrapped around the neck of a Bud Light.
Standing by the warm fire, holding a cold bottle of beer, Neil felt more relaxed than he had in a very long time. Eighteen years had been far too long. These four guys had been his best friends. As he stood by the campfire with them, he understood what it was that he’d been missing all these years. The friendship. The camaraderie. The comradeship.
Steve lifted his bottle in the air. “Gentlemen, raise your bottles. Here’s to old times, old friends, and to one hell of a weekend.”
The bottles met with a clink. “To one hell of a weekend!” they all repeated aloud.
After another sip from his Corona, Neil asked, “Whose got the pickup?”
“The F150?” said Rob. “That’s mine.”
Neil smiled. He’d been wrong.
Summer, 1995
Neil had come up with the idea on Thursday afternoon. He, along with his friends, had spent most of Friday plotting and scheming between their counseling duties. By the time all the young campers had been picked up by their parents on Friday evening, Neil had every detail mapped out. He knew what would happen, how it would happen, and when it would happen. The most difficult part of the plan would be catching the snake.
As the sun rose on Saturday morning, he could tell it would be another scorching day. The humidity was thick and oppressive, causing him to sweat before he’d even slipped out of his bunk. He dressed quietly, making sure not to disturb his cabin’s co-counselor sleeping in another bunk across the room. By the time he’d reached the boys’ bathhouse, his Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt was drenched with sweat. Patrick was already kneeling beside the wall, holding a white pillowcase which was knotted at the top.
Standing along the back wall of the bathhouse, they leaned against the whitewashed blocks, trying to stifle their laughter. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. Glancing at his watch, Neil nudged his friend with an elbow. “Not long now.”
Saturday being a day off, the other camp counselors usually slept in, enjoying the relative lull between the departure of the previous week’s campers and the arrival of the next. Stinky Bateman was habitual almost to a fault. The kid would soon be traipsing across to the bathhouse, a towel hanging from his shoulder and his toiletry bag in his hand.
When he heard the distinctive sound of flip-flops approaching, Neil had to clamp his hand over Patrick’s mouth to keep his friend from laughing aloud. He heard the flip-flops enter the bathhouse, the slapping of each flimsy shoe striking the concrete floor echoed from the small vents in the bathhouse wall above their heads. Then came the whistling. Out of tune and off key. Whitney Houston. It figures, Neil thought. The hiss of water rushing from the shower head was their cue.
Patrick slipped quietly around the side of the bathhouse, leaving Neil alone, holding a squirming pillowcase. Only gone for a few brief moments, Patrick returned carrying a bundle of clothing and a navy terrycloth towel, which he dropped on the ground at their feet.
“Give me a hand,” Neil whispered.
Patrick cupped his hands together, forming a step, giving Neil just enough lift to reach one of the vents along the wall. Pillowcase in hand, he turned the already loosened screws and lifted the vent up, leaving a rectangular breech in the wall. The showers stalls were directly below. Heaving the pillowcase up, he carefully spilled its contents into the opening and then leapt back down to the ground. Patrick grabbed the bundle of clothing, and they dashed off into the forest behind the bathhouse.
Circling through the forest, they emerged beside Oak Lodge, one of the boys’ cabins. Keeping his eyes alert, Neil watched Patrick creep onto the cabin’s porch and drop the bundle of clothing by the door. Then, he and Patrick scurried through the underbrush to Neil’s cabin, Redwood Lodge, finding Steve, Rob, and Jeremy lounging on the porch. He noticed the smug smiles on their faces.
“Everything ready?” Neil asked.
Jeremy nodded, handing him the Polaroid. The porch of Redwood Lodge provided an almost unobscured view of the bathhouse, making it the perfect place to observe the fruits of their morning labor. Clutching the camera, he stood with his friends, waiting to see his plan come together in, what he hoped, would be all its hilarious glory.
First came the whining shout from the bathhouse. “Not funny! Come on, where are my clothes?”
Then he heard the pleading, “Please! Give me my clothes back!”
Finally, the moment Neil was waiting for—the scream. It was a high-pitched scream, like one he’d have expected from a girl. There were no balls behind the scream, just a girlish shrill that rang out from the bathhouse. Raising the camera to his eye, he clicked the shutter the moment he saw movement at the bathhouse door. Stinky Bateman charged across the camp—not a stitch on him—with his flip-flops kicking up sand behind him, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Neil smiled as he snapped another picture, knowing what was coming next. From behind the nearby trees and cabins, other counselors stepped out and began to applaud, girls and boys alike. He laughed, knowing how difficult it must have been for Rob and Jeremy to convince the others to wake up early on their day off.
He continued to click the shutter as Bateman reached Oak Lodge, stumbled onto the porch, and yanked at the door. But the wood wedge he’d instructed Steve to jam in the door earlier held firm. Neil took another Polaroid as Stinky Bateman tugged and banged on the door. The boy’s thin body lurched back and forth, trembling violently as he struggled to enter the cabin. As the other counselors cheered and whistled, Neil watched Bateman cry loudly, the scrawny naked body looking pale and pathetic. Even from his vantage point, he saw the tears streaming down the boy’s face. This was the funniest thing he’d seen that whole first summer at camp, and it was only the end of June. He’d run out of film, and was preparing to reload the camera when Bateman got the door open, plunged into the cabin, and slammed it shut behind him.
It took another five minutes before he could contain his laughter enough to speak in more than monosyllabic sentences.
Neil said, “Someone better go get the snake.”
Chapter Nine
The campfire popped and crackled as Jeremy dropped more firewood onto the flames, sending a mass of ash and embers soaring skyward. Neil’s eyes followed the burning particles as they faded into the darkness above. He leaned back in the canvas chair, stretching his legs toward the rocks surrounding the glowing inferno before him. He wiped the back of his hand across his moist forehead, sending a bead of sweat plunging into his eye.
“You’re a big-shot lawyer now?” asked Rob.
Smiling, Neil replied, “I prefer to be called
a defense attorney.”
Rob chuckled. “Excuse me. I didn’t realize the word lawyer had become so lowbrow.”
Glancing across the fire at Patrick, Neil saw the flames reflected in his friend’s dark eyes again. This time he found it a little unsettling. Despite the smile that adorned his face, Patrick’s eyes seemed esoteric, hiding something behind their shadowy countenance. Neil raised his beer to his lips, taking a quick swallow, and then, looking back at Patrick, found his friend’s eyes bright and clear. Must have just been a trick of the light, a combination of the darkness around us and the flickering fire, he thought.
“What do you do now, Patrick?” he asked.
“Lobbyist. In Washington.” Patrick leaned forward, swirling his beer bottle aimlessly around.
“He wines and dines those pricks on Capitol Hill,” said Jeremy.
Neil took another quick sip from his bottle. “One of those pricks was a recent client of mine.”
Jeremy laughed. “I guess that tells us what kind of lowlifes you defend.”
Ignoring the comment, Neil looked back toward Patrick. “Who do you lobby for?”
“Anyone who’ll pay me. My current client is a coalition of pharmaceutical companies.”
“You like it?”
“It’s got its perks.” Patrick gestured toward Jeremy. “Like that jackass says, I wine and dine with the rich and powerful on Capitol Hill. And I do it on someone else’s dime.”
Neil’s eyes darted around the campfire, pausing briefly on each of his friends. “Have you guys kept in touch all these years?”
Steve brought his Corona up to his mouth, draining it in one long gulp. “Not really. The occasional Christmas card. Just enough to know where we each lived.” The empty bottle dropped to the sand near Steve’s feet. He rose, crossing to the cooler for another. “At least not until I started planning this weekend.”
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