Margaret Katherine O’Casey, P.I.
*
Self-Purported
Private Investigator
CAMP MATIGUA:
THE LOST AND FORGOTTEN
BY
ALLISON GREER
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent
Actual spelling—Mitigwa . . . “maker of men”
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©
Copyright 2012 Allison Greer.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
isbn: 978-1-4669-4717-7 (sc)
isbn: 978-1-4669-4716-0 (e)
Trafford rev. 08/23/2012
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Contents
DEDICATION
PREFACE
AUTHOR’S NOTES
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
11
13
14
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
45
46
47
48
50
51
52
53
54
REFERENCES
DECLARATION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cover designs
By
ALLISON GREER
With
Additional artwork and digital preparation
By
*
Screened Images, Inc.
Bryan, Texas
*
Specialties Photography, Inc.
College Station, Texas
DEDICATION
For all people who have no family
to uphold, nurture and sustain
PREFACE
Out of the dust left behind by a multitudinous
horde of supremely beautiful, talented, wealthy
and blessed protagonists steps a different hero-
ine—a woman who labors under her own uni-
que adversity and manages to re-invent herself
in a most extraordinary manner, a way that gives
her life a purpose and future:
Margaret Katherine O’Casey
*
Self-Purported
Private Investigator
AUTHOR’S NOTES
It is Maggie’s hope that you will be enthralled,
enlightened, inspired
and,
most of all, highly entertained.
*
ALLISON GREER
asks her readers to consider poetry to be
an integral part of the story and not fol-
low in Margaret’s footsteps for, when she
comes to words printed in verse, she skill-
fully glides around taking the position,
“blah, blah, blah, blah.”
Camp Matigua:
the
Lost and
Forgotten
1...Then the Lord
answered
Job out of the whirlwind, and
said:
2...“Who is this who darkens
counsel
By words without knowledge?
3...Now prepare yourself like a
man;
I will question you, and you
shall answer Me.
4...“Where were you when I laid
the foundations of the earth?
Tell Me, if you have
understanding.
5...Who determined its
measurements?
Surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon
it?
6...To what were its foundations
fastened?
Or who laid its cornerstone,
7...When the morning stars sang
together,
And all the sons of God
shouted for joy?
8...“Or who shut in the sea with
doors,
When it burst forth and issued
from the womb;
9...When I made the clouds its
garment,
And thick darkness its
swaddling band;
10...When I fixed My limit for it,
And set bars and doors;
11...When I said,
‘This far you may come, but no
farther,
And here your proud waves
must stop!’
12...“Have you commanded the
morning since your days
began,
And caused the dawn to know
its place,
13...That it might take hold of the
ends of the earth,
And the wicked be shaken out
of it?
14...It takes on form like clay
under a seal,
And stands out like a garment.
15...From the wicked their light is
withheld,
And the upraised arm is
broken.”
NKJV ™
Job 38:1-15
Song of Camp Matigua:
Lost and Forgotten Boy Scout Camp
My mum and me—we were a great team. She called me her little poly-wag ’cuz I took to water right off. I wuz born to it, she said. Well, I did love it so. I could make all kinds of moves ordinarily denied land creatures—turning, diving, bobbing up to the surface then diving down, again, with so little effort. Kicking off to give a bit of speed. Well, anyone who loves to swim like I do knows what I mean. I’d pretend I was one of the little fishies making myself roll over and over, wiggling my body up and down, side to side—bobbing, weeble-wobbling. And when you get used to it, holdin’ your breath comes natural. Well, that’s what me mum said, I was a natural. She’d pat me sometimes and the water’d splish-splash. She said I bobbed around like a cork, like a windsock, she said. And we laughed and laughed.
It just seemed like everything is so much clearer, cleaner in the water. And the plants growing up from the settled silt below put o
ff these little bubbles. They hold tight
to the leaves till they get so big and heavy they have to let go. I like to move amongst them, feel them tickle me. I want to say, “Hey, don’t be afraid to let go. Look at me. I don’t hang onto nuthin’. See how fun it is once you let go!” So, they gurgle past me on their way to the top and settle theirselves till they plop to the surface and pop up above my head. I’m ADHD under there . . . ready to experience everything—the whole enchilada, the whole banana split, the whole grill cheese and chips and throw in a pickle and a chocolate malt. I’m there. I’m in the moment. Me mum knew what I meant. Me and her—we’d swim together. Frankly, to me she looked like a beached whale floating around on her back. That’s what she liked to do most. She liked to bob. Water is soft. It’s calming and bright. Illuminating. Bouncie and blue. Crystal. Fun.
Sometimes, I take in a little bit, but, if you know what you’re doing, you don’t have reason to panic. I never did. I was a natural. And sometimes those little fishies would ever so gently brush against me—maybe my arm or my leg. Sometimes, even, I felt them tug on me a little bit with their piscus lips or maybe a
tooth here and there. It doesn’t hurt ’cuz I’m so busy myself toolin’ around. When you’re busy, you’re impervious. You know that, you A-types. But I guess one of the nicest of all times is when it rains. Splish-splashin’ on top of the pool. Drip-droppin’ on my head, my face. Sometimes it’s cool, makes me shudder so I dive deep. Sometimes it’s warm as a bathtub, so warm I can’t tell where I end and the water begins. We’re the same. No beginning, no end. That’s the way I feel—like I don’t want it ever to end. Me and me mum—floatin’ and bobbin’, twistin’ and turnin’, swishin’ and swashin’. I swim circles around her and we laugh and she pats me, splish-splashin’ the water all around. Split. Splat. And I laugh and laugh at the times we have together in the water in the cool, clear pool with the green grasses growin’ up all around and the bubbles slippin’ past and the little fishies nudgin’ me. They’ll nudge her, too, if given half a chance. They’re not particular. They’ll nudge a beached whale as soon as they’ll nudge a tad-pole.
But if I dive really deep and follow the gurgling, blurbing noise, I come to the source of the pool—the spring from whence forth
comes all that lovely water . . . crystal clear water bubbling up out of the rocks and silt. And the plants swayin’ slow against its flow. That’s where it’s warm, really warm. There’s, actually, more than one. So, I can stay busy following bunches and bunches of gurgles and blurbings. You can’t be afraid, though. You can’t change your mind or you’ll never get to the bottom. You just have to make up your mind that’s what you’re gonna do and do it. Down there is sweet peace. If you keep changin’ your mind, you’ll never know the peace of a pool spring. And just barely hear the raindrops up on top so loud is the gurgling and blurbing in your ears and the bubbles rising along your body.
But really, you don’t know heaven ’til you stay over night in my pool. Might I invite you? Won’t you join me, be my guest? I can look up through the water into the heavens—we could look up together, me and you—and see all the little starry features—Orion and Piscis, Libra . . . Aquarius, Hydra, Draco—all the constellations that are my consolation. I know them all. They wink down on me. Their twinkling fire calls me up from the deep where I sleep in the warmth by the spring. I
go up on top and bob around like my mother’s little cork. And rolling over, look straight into the heavens at God’s brilliant and bountiful stellar clusters.
Can you float? Can you hold your breath? I can teach you how to dive down and never turn back. We could be a great team—you and me. Let’s be partners . . . ok?
2
The vilipendency Margaret felt toward Marcella hadn’t emerged over night for Maggie was a patient child. Rather, it had developed gradually over time as she weighed the value of that playmate’s friendship against what she came to regard as the nature of a truly spoiled, little miscreant.
“Help me, Daddy. Help me.”
Mr. Kramer looked across the kitchen table at Marcella who was plowing a loaded fork around her mouth.
“What’s the problem?”
Margaret sat before the plate Mrs. Kramer had prepared for her, watching the pitiful scene: a little girl old enough to know better who’d been feeding herself quite successfully for nigh-on five years moiling and poking a fork around her lips leaving bits and pieces of lettuce and accompanying salad dressing smears and the father who catered to his daughter’s every whim.
“I can’t find my mouth. Help me . . . p-l-e-a-z-e.” Marcella wheedled.
“Good grief!” In thoughtful disgust, Margaret borrowed her mother’s oft-used expression.
Mr. Kramer pushed his chair away from the table leaving his own dinner to go cold, sat beside his child and hand-fed her.
“Wonder where ‘e’s been all ’er life, he doesn’ know she can do that for ’erself!” the little girl mulled over in her mind.
Maggie contemplated as she watched the pair that she’d not needed help in that endeavor since her mother weaned her off Zwieback biscuits some six years earlier. She could still remember their smell, the feel of the hard, crunchy toast to her painfully aggravated gums, the mess they left on her fingers after gnawing and drooling on soggy edges, schmoozing it around on her highchair tray like finger paint.
Maggie, in fact, had quite a repertoire of primordial rememorations: her daddy’s cold, leather gloves when he picked her up and carried her into the wintry night air, into the warm car; the rough texture of his Navy-blue, woolen overcoat against her face, not altogether unlike the army blankets he kept in the garage; the smell of coffee when she toddled out of her primary Sunday School class into his waiting arms; the aroma of her grandfather Tower’s cigars as it drifted through the house; the Sunday morning gospel music—the only station he permitted on at that time; the feel of his substantial girth against her back when she relaxed into his lap listening to him read the funny papers; his delight to have that time with his grandchild; the smell of her
mother’s hands after she bleached the drain board; the expanding splatter of cottage cheese Mrs. Kramer had spooned onto her plate to take the place of meat . . .
Margaret looked at that large splash of white curd, a food her own mother only served with canned pineapple and peaches and wondered if she’d really be able to finish it off as proper guest decorum dictated she must.
. . . the sweet smell of Juicy Fruit gum Grandmother kept stockpiled in her purse . . . Margaret and her younger brother followed their noses into the closet into Pearl’s handbag ferreting out the sweet chew . . . the sweat droplets that formed on the woman’s upper lip on a hot day; the way she fanned the little girl before fanning herself; the cool of her cheek against Maggie’s forehead; the twenty-two rifle her father kept in his closet way back in the corner behind the Bible study books and accounting ledgers.
{“Margaret and her brothers played Hide-and-Seek in there all the time.”}
“But, 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, were well acquainted with the leather belt he kept hanging from his tie rack on the inside of the door.”
{“A little acquainting early on usually lasts a lifetime.”}
“And, if he weren’t at home, our mother did an equally effective job at handling a wayward child.”
Just leave the gun alone at home.
“It was our mom, however, who eventually persuaded Dad to retire the belt. She, simply, couldn’t bear to see it hit her babies’ tender behinds.”
*
“Daddy, come here!” Marcella called the man.
“Don’ call him!” Margaret entreated.
Ignoring her friend’s request completely, Marcella yelled the louder, “Daddy
, come here!”
“Don’ call ’im in here!!” Maggie was getting desperate. She heard the man approach the bathroom door.
{“No time to tweak her decision-making paradigm,” Mr. Bill inserted.}
“When you girls get in the tub, cup the water in your hands and sniff it into your noses. That’ll wash away all the dust from the trip.” Mrs. Kramer had instructed her daughter and Margaret. “The air gets dusty around here.”
Margaret’s mother had carefully taught her to abide by the rules of polite company when visiting in other folks’ homes. Say “please” and “thank-you” and “may I” and “yes, ma’am.” Dip your spoon away from you when eating soup; push your chair under the table when dining is through. Tell Mrs. Kramer how much you enjoyed your meal. Help Marcella put the toys away and straighten her room when playing is done.
She hadn’t, however, covered the part where playmate-calls-father-into-bathroom-when-you’re-sitting-buck-naked-in-the-tub.
“Guess she hadn’ thought of it.” the child justified.
But, in he came, an unwelcome specter, and stood in the middle of the room looking down on the girls as though viewing Maggie in the au naturale was as ordinary an everyday occurrence as brushing his teeth. Marcella was overjoyed, twittering away to her dad. Margaret tried most unsuccessfully to hide behind Marcella and hoped the man would remove himself post haste which, gratefully, he did do but only in his own time and after questioning his child over the importance of his being there in the first place.
And, Marcella never . . .
{“Maggie’s quite certain.” Mr. Bill interjects.}
. . . Marcella never helped her clean up her own room after play. Samantha would whistle her signature trill from three houses down and Marcella was out like a light tossing a “Bye” over her shoulder and leaving all pick up, put-in-place to Margaret.
“And, nobody ever corrected her on the matter.” The little girl fumed over the injustice.
*
Swat!
Maggie pulled her punches. She could have delivered so much more to Marcella’s backside when the three children played Doctor. Abiding by the rules of polite company, they each took their turn being patient . . . fingernails became injections. Maggie wasn’t at all sure what the swats were for, but they were important. When the part fell to Marcella, Margaret had to constrain her hand from popping her over-much. It’d not be good, after all, if the little miscreant became unhappy, howled and got her mother in on the act—as one of three siblings, Margaret had had practice at applying pressure without arousing elders’ ire. Her younger brother, however, eventually spoiled that playful past time bringing it to a quick halt when he stood before Marcella’s mother, looked up innocently into the woman’s perspicacious visage and confessed,
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