Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten

by Allison Greer

  {“And, not particularly brightly white from what I observed.”}

  Clearly, it wanted the whole enchilada, the whole banana split . . . in a nice way. Moving over, on top of her, it pushed its splayed fingers of the right hand into her hair and curled down. Catching goodly clumps of hair between its knuckles, it gave a slow, steady tug against Maggie’s scalp, gently pulling her head back, adjusting her face to its kisses.

  It was at this moment that the good Nurse Widon entered the room, decided her patient deserved privacy and, too, wanted to keep any innocent unsuspecting from alarm. She secured the door. She’d come back, momentarily.

  Meggie’s monitors calmed down soon enough. It was this nocturnal memory that caused her pause when Carlie decided a little pain was ok.

  Mr. Bill, cautious to a fault, felt pain in intimacy must be carefully rationed, implemented by the mature. Otherwise, it could quickly transform into sadism—a perversion that influences all other aspects of one’s life.

  40

  “Having picked up the cake per Carey’s instructions, I was pretty much more than midway to the ceremony site when I realized we’d not remembered the camera. I was heartbroken. The camera was, actually, Carey’s, stayed up on the top shelf of his closet. Can’t recall exactly when he acquired it, maybe brought it to the marriage. He was the picture-taker in our family of two and eight-ninths. But, I could have reminded him to get it before he left the house. And, I forgot.

  “I was watching, carefully. The turn off was a bit of a puzzler. Carey was right. If I hadn’t been really watching for it, I would have missed it and wound up in Ballardsville . . . a delightful town, I’m sure, but not where I needed to be. The road turned to the right off the main highway then took an immediate ninety-degree turn back in the direction I came running beside a shoulder heavy with pine trees, Catawba and underbrush. It, quickly, made another ninety-degree turn to the left.

  “The view took my breath away. As far as I could see were tall trees covered in hot pink blossoms lining both sides of the roadway and off into a horizon of pristine, cloudlessly blue sky. The red dirt road was thickly carpeted with those same blossoms where the

  breezes had blown them. And, I thought I could see so clearly the straight, single line of a motorcycle’s tire marks . . . my husband’s. It was overwhelming—such a beautiful sight. And, the only tire tracks in all those blossoms was my husband’s. Sometimes, Carey really surprised me.

  “I guess I traveled down the road about eleven, fourteen minutes before I saw that it came to a split some distance down. Carey hadn’t shown a ‘Y’ on his map. I wasn’t sure what to do. Then, I saw the sun glance off a bit of chrome nestled in the pines bordering the road. I recognized it right away and was more than a little relieved . . . relieved to know I’d gotten to the right spot—on time, even. I confess I was feeling apprehensive about whether I’d get lost, have to backtrack, search for the right road, be late. But, now, I could put all those fears aside. I was at the right place on time and would soon be united with my husband.

  “I pulled off the road as far as I could—the weeds were so high, didn’t want to use my relatively new car to bulldoze through and get it scratched—got out, picked my way through the trees past Carey’s cycle. I called to him. No response, so I kept trekking deeper. The woods were stunning, simply gorgeous. The sun was dazzling—a spring sun—shimmering through the leaves and there was a bit of a breeze higher up rustling the tree boughs.

  “Finding Carey and the spot he had set up for our brunch was very much like finding the ladies’ room at the bike rally. I just kept moving deeper and came upon an opening, a small pond with a huge old tree bending out over the water. A substantial rope had been tied to one of

  its branches and was hanging down to just above the water. It looked like fun. I would have enjoyed it at another time, when I wasn’t heavy with baby. We’d, probably, just pull each other down—drown ourselves. Wouldn’t that be a peach!

  “There was Carey standing against a tree just waiting for me—without a word.”

  {“That boy could be a test, sometimes.”}

  “Carey always kept me off balance. I don’t know if he did it intentionally or if it just came naturally. He seemed to me less than generous at times. Cold. I went over to him, told him how relieved I was to see him, to be in the right place. I put my arms around his body and ran my hands up his back and held him close. He kissed me on my forehead and put his arms around me, pressed my face against his chest.

  “His little radio was on, playing—the one he kept with him all the time in a leather pouch on his bike. I guess that was what kept me venturing through the pines and brambles toward the site. It had been so faint; I hadn’t even noticed the sound.

  “I didn’t know what he had planned to take place during this ceremony. He hadn’t mentioned anything about writing out vows. I expected he’d wing it as I planned to do. While I hadn’t written anything down—too stilted—I had planned to say something about how I’d uphold my end of the relationship, continue to see that his needs were met, try to remain flexible and adjust to changing circumstances. I’d say that he was my man and

  no other, that I’d always be faithful to him, try to keep myself looking nice for him, to take good care of our baby, try hard to balance my responsibilities between him, baby, parents, to allow him to have his hobbies, to be the type of woman he’d be pleased to take to company affairs. I felt like that covered everything.

  “But, you know, Maggie . . . it was all about me. Me, me, me. What I was going to do for him. I never stopped to ponder what he should do for me, what he owed me and the baby. I, simply, wanted to be the best wife for him that I could. I should have thought ahead enough to include church, God, my Christ Jesus. That time in my life . . . I truly fear my Father God had to sit on the back row . . . back under the balcony where the lights are dim and the view poor. I regret that very much and I think that, when a Christian does that to her Christ, she gets what she gets. His absence? Perhaps. I don’t know . . . it’s just a thought.

  “Carey asked me if I’d brought everything. I said I had, but that we’d forgotten the camera. I started crying.

  “‘We won’t have those mementos to show everybody, to show the baby when it gets older. I wanted so much to show Mom and Dad.’ Seemed like I shed more than my share of tears during that time of my life.

  “He held me tight against his body and we danced slow to his radio. As the breezes blew through the forest, the lovely, delicate, white Dogwood blossoms, the wonderfully tiny, hot pink Red Bud floweret’s wafted gently down around us. I began to steady my emotions and relax in his embrace, slow dancing to that music that,

  within a few notes, stirs to the surface so many unnamed, unrecognizable memories.

  “Suddenly, Carey spun me around with those strong arms and held me out tight. In that split second I perceived the specter in Falcon Classic five pocket women’s jean pants, $75, plus tax, wearing his two-tone baseball Bomber jacket, cognac-black USA leather, $100, plus tax.

  “And, Maggie, the lights went out. It all happened so fast. And, then, it was all over. What should have been the beginning was so much the end.”

  Ballardsville Town Crier

  The decomposing body found by local youths

  at the old Camp Matigua Boy Scout site was

  finally identified as that belonging to missing

  person Mrs. Carlie Lynette Olftersen wife of

  Raymond Carey Olftersen.

  A small obit had been written up in the town’s newspaper. It left out much: that the cause of death had been a solid blow to the head, that the victim had, probably, spent some time unconscious before succumbing to her wound, shock and blood loss, that no witnesses had come forward and the police had no suspects at the present time, that she had been pregnant. The husband was taken into custody, questioned and released upon the
testimony of friends that he had been with them during a motorcycle festival. People who lived in the couple’s neighborhood testified they saw him leave

  out early on his cycle . . . “a common occurrence”, they all agreed. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” neighbors said.

  Carey had told his wench to bring nothing.

  “You bring nothing; you leave nothing.”

  He pulled out his wallet to confirm the exact location of their destination. Then, she got on his bike, he in the car and they two took off down the road, veering to the left at the ‘V’ past the small, family cemetery. The car was found first, where it had been left in the parking lot of a small grocery store that had gone out of business years back . . . no cake, no ice chest, no Roquefort firecrackers, no fingerprints that shouldn’t be there.

  {“You see how all we consider important in this life can be rendered absurd with a heartbeat? But, you have to keep trying, don’t we . . . making the best of it, I mean.” Mr. Bill was speaking to Maggie.}

  “But, as well . . . the cake, the ice chest, the Roquefort firecrackers meant a great deal on a much higher level. They were Carlie’s best intentions to make a lovely go of her and Carey’s relationship . . . as best as she knew how. And, on that same level, the cake, et al, heaped coals from hell’s own broom tree upon Carey’s head and all others who enabled him to accomplish his deed.

  “Jehovah-God does give credit for good intentions. It’s part of our good works regardless of how they turn out or how other people turn them around.”

  {“You’re sounding more like Clarence every day.”}

  “I’m getting better.”

  41

  “Put this down, Maggie as one more thing Carlie Olftersen has pulled off well—of course, all with my great Jehovah’s help—for the spring rains that had fallen some days back made the ground where I fell soft. Not muddy . . . just a lovely soft landing. And, I don’t know how I did it, but I landed flat on my back in the subtle indentation the animals made when they eased gently, slowly down the bank to the pool for water.

  “I was lying in the water, shallow as it was with my beautiful gossamer blouse floating on the pool. Its ebb and flow moved my garment ever so slightly to what seemed a slow dance all its own. And, God’s beautiful little blossoms were falling down into the pool all around me. I was there and can add my testimony to that philosophical question: tiny blossoms falling make absolutely no sound—I think that’s part of their beauty. But, ripples? My, oh, my, yes . . . the loveliest of perfectly tiny, delicate ripples, without exception. Dogwoods and Red Buds. They fell on my material, gathered around me as the waters moved beneath the breeze.

  “The water was warm. The sun shining down in a most polite way was so pleasant. And, when the stars came out some hours later, filled the sky—more stars than I ever dreamed possible—I felt no pain. I lay there looking

  up into God’s heaven in unimaginable peace and watched. All night I peered up through the opening in the arbor canopy created by the pool and ceremony site and a multitude of stars performed before my eyes, moving across and disappearing behind the trees. I heard the night animals chatter amongst themselves—the owl’s solitary hoot, crickets’ chirps alerting each other of their whereabouts—a symphony uninterrupted by human rustle.

  “Now and again, a tear passed down my temple from wondering why Carey didn’t come to check on me. But, then, I remembered and corrected myself.

  “I was alone . . . alone with Him and His creations.”

  42

  “O happy day that fixed my choice

  On Thee, my Savior and my God!

  Well may this glowing heart rejoice,

  And tell its raptures all abroad.

  O happy bond, that seals my vows

  To Him who merits all my love!

  Let cheerful anthems fill His house,

  While to that sacred shrine I move.

  ’Tis done; the great transaction’s done!

  I am my Lord’s, and He is mine;

  He drew me, and I followed on,

  Charmed to confess the voice divine.

  High Heav’n, that heard the solemn vow,

  That vow renewed shall daily hear,

  Till in life’s latest hour I bow,

  And bless in death a bond so dear.

  Happy day, happy day

  When Jesus washed my sins away!

  He taught me how to watch and pray,

  And live rejoicing every day.”

  Philip Doddridge E. F. Rimbault

  43

  Another detail the Ballardsville Town Crier obituary left out was that Mrs. Carlie (Carey) Olftersen was no longer with child when the EMS and police arrived on the scene. She had, somehow, at some time, been delivered. The policeman said that, while they could prove pretty close the onset of post-mortem, they had, to his knowledge, yet, to devise a test for determining time of post-partum. One veteran officer removed his cap, scratched his head and said he’d never before run into a case where the latter had been up for question.

  The boys who found the body remembered nothing that made them think she was pregnant, but they hadn’t stayed around long enough to appraise her condition. They were being treated in the Ballardsville Municipal Hospital for mild shock.

  I’m a loose cannon, al-right.

  “Now, if we could find the infant, we might have some information regarding its delivery . . . but . . .” his explanation trailed off, embarrassed that they couldn’t find a mere baby in such a small pool.

  Song of Camp Matigua:

  Lost and Forgotten Boy Scout Camp

  You got your basic laws, see. They’re like lots and lots of grandchildren. Then, you’ve got your grandpoppa and grandmom laws—not so many of those left, see? So, that’s where entropy falls. It’s like your grandpop—one of a kind—and he rules over all the children and grandchildren laws. Right? And all the children and grandchildren depend on Grandpoppa Entropy.

  I know the big boys would tell it different, but I say it this way so’s you understand. Ok?

  The world’s just like me: we’re active. We’re ADHD, Reddy Freddy. But if I get too busy for my pool, and my pool gets tired of me weeble-wobblin’ all over the place—let’s just say I’m bumpin’ into all the little fishies and they gets tired of it, or I’m turnin’ over the little turtles and they don’t like it . . . Let’s say I’m bitin’ snakes instead of them comin’ after me—and they’re all tired, but I’m, still, toolin’ around . . . then somethin’s gotta give, so the

  world minimizes. It’ll minimize me. It’ll, even, minimize you. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it, all of a sudden, minimizes potential. Potential is minimized and entropy is maximized.

  Now, you’re probably thinkin’ just like me: “Why, that’s not fair!” But, see, you have to go back to Grandpoppa Entropy. He rules and that’s the way he has it set up. You can argue all you want, but that’s the way it’s gonna be.

  It’s like my pool if it weren’t for my nice, warm springs. My pool would sit there and lose its heat to the dirt, the trees, even the little animals that come for a drink. It’d all take heat from my pool and soon I’d be shiverin’. It would, except my pool has its very own heat—its warm springs. And those springs never stop. So, we give off our heat, ’cause we’re not stingy, ’cause we can always get more. But the world is, still, tryin’ to steal it away. All the time, it’s tryin’ to steal it away ’cause it thinks we’ve got more than our share.

  Since there’s always so many more grandchildren than grandpops, there’s always so many more immature and disorderly movin’ around about and you end up with this “macroscopic uniformity” and “microscopic disorder.” So, I think my boy Einstein would agree with me that you’ve got disorder down below but order higher up. And that’s what the world’s interested in�
�overall, higher-up order. And what we’re lookin’ at here is your basic interface of two very significant rivers and one is flowing up to increasingly higher states of order and the other is flowing down to disorder—mature vs. immature. And, it’s precisely through the interface of these two rivers that these relations occur, and, if the interface is incommensurable, then the relations are effectively prohibited or, at best, incomprehensible. See? There’s your key: incomprehensibility.

  I know this is pretty hard stuff for you to follow, but I can take it farther—when the gradient of the potential between the source and its surroundings is below its critical threshold, then the flow of heat is produced at random and the system is disorderly. Here, again, “macroscopic uniformity” vs. “microscopic disorder.”

  Yen and Yang. Yeh.

  And you can take this to the bank: No matter how the system’s arranged, the pattern of flow produced will be the one that minimizes potential. Once the idea is grasped, examples are easy to proliferate. And that’s why I love my momma so: she tried mightily against the odds. She was one of two incommensurable rivers that could not pull reconciliation off. It wasn’t her fault her potential was minimized at a faster rate. Entropy, see? She was at odds with a world that is in the order production business and produces entropy faster.

  Life, for her, simply, followed the 2nd Law of Therm . . . that’s what I call it . . . maximizing entropy production and, when constraints operate on a system, such that it is prevented from entering one or more of its possible or permitted states, as contrasted with its forbidden states, the measure of the total amount of ‘disorder’ in the system is given. It’s very reasonable and follows universal law.

  Anyway, that’s how I figure it. You probably have your own way. There could, conceivably, be a hundred ways to look at it and they’d all be right.

  But, I’ve got to tell you, as I said before, I was there for the “Big Crunch” when the world wouldn’t stop squeezin’ down. It sqwoz down and sqwoz down. It’s not somethin’ I’ll be doin’, again. I can tell you that much. And I was comin’ up, lookin’ all around—just my liddle buger-eyes bobbin’ above the water . . .