The campfire flickered on all the little faces that somberly stared into the flames.
“What we especially hope,” Connie said, “is that you remember that of all the people there are in this world, there is only one you. Nobody else is exactly like you. You are special. In fact, it’s your very differences from other people that make you you. Some of you came here thinking that you could never sleep away from home. You found out that you could. Some of you thought you could never go into a dark woods, or paddle a canoe, or ride a horse. You did. Some of you learned to swim while you were here. So right now I want you to turn to the campers sitting next to you and pat those people on the back.”
The kids started laughing then and patted each other a little too hard, getting slaps on the back in return.
“And now,” said Connie, “I want you to pat yourselves on the back.”
This made the kids really whoop it up. They grabbed each other’s hands to help them reach their own backs. There were a lot of “ow’s” and “oof’s,” but almost everyone was smiling.
When they calmed down at last, Jack Harrigan took over and led the kids in the Camp Overlook cheer:
“Clap your hands!
Stamp your feet.
Our Camp Overlook
Can’t be beat!”
We sang the camp song, then Connie read some poems, and after that the campers and counselors quietly, almost reverently, made their way back to their cabins, like deer going into the forest, as Connie always said.
Except that our Coyotes wanted to linger a while longer, and so did the girls from Doris and Pamela’s cabin. So we all sat together on the logs, watching the flames die down in the bonfire, listening to the crackle and pop of the wood.
“Well,” said Doris, “tomorrow at this time, you’ll all be home again, and tonight will be just a memory. It will be a good one, though, won’t it?”
“Yeah. I wish I never had to go home,” said a girl from Pamela’s cabin, and I wondered if Pamela didn’t feel the same way.
“Me either,” said Estelle.
“There’s not a thing about home you’ve missed while you were here?” I asked. “Not a single thing?”
“I don’t miss being made fun of because I can’t read as good as my sister,” said the girl named Virginia.
“I don’t miss bein’ hit upside my head ’cause Daddy say I shootin’ off my mouth,” said Latisha. “I wish I didn’t never have to go see him.”
We were all quiet for a moment.
“I’d just like to have something to miss,” said another girl.
“And somebody to miss me,” said Estelle.
I think that Gwen and Doris and Pamela and I all reacted to that the same way, because we put our arms around the nearest girls and pulled them toward us.
“I’ll miss you,” I said to Mary and Kim, trying to pull Estelle over as well.
“We’ll miss you too,” said Josephine.
Some of the girls went right to sleep when we reached our cabin, but others were reluctant to let go of the evening.
“Good night, everybody,” came Josephine’s sleepy voice from her bunk.
“Good night, Josie,” said Ruby.
Kim, however, was weeping because she didn’t want to say good-bye the next day.
“Hey, Kim! Your aunt’s going to be waiting for you! And is she ever going to love that twig basket you made!” I said.
“But I don’t want to leave you!” Kim wept.
“Shut up, girl,” came Latisha’s voice from above.
“Latisha,” I said, “do you think that on this last night here at camp, you could manage to say something nice to Kim?”
There was silence. And then Latisha said, “Could you quiet down, Kim? I’m trying to sleep up here.”
And for Latisha, I guess, that was progress.
12
* * *
Home
It was strange. The kids were more subdued going home than they were going up to Camp Overlook. I would have thought it would have been the opposite.
“Hardly any of them knew each other on the way there, but they whooped it up like old friends,” I said to Gwen.
“Whistling in the dark,” she told me. “They were trying to hide their nervousness, that’s all.”
“And when you consider what most of them are going back to, there’s not much to whoop about, I guess,” said Elizabeth.
As we’d boarded the buses that morning outside the dining hall Ross had kissed her just before we got on. Ross’s brother had driven down from Philadelphia to pick him up, so Ross and Elizabeth were saying their good-byes as we loaded the kids. Everyone was watching, but I don’t think Elizabeth even cared.
True to our word, each of us assistant counselors managed to say something nice to Gerald.
“Hey, G. E.,” I called as he stepped on his bus. “I’m going to listen for you on the evening news.” He grinned.
We stopped halfway home to get the kids lunch at McDonald’s, and when we got on the bus again, I sat next to Elizabeth. She was looking about as peaceful as I’d ever seen her, smiling to herself. I would have thought she’d be weeping.
“Must be having a Ross thought,” I said.
“He’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met,” she murmured.
I settled in close to her, our shoulders touching. “What did you like most about him?”
She thought for a minute. “He… he just sort of let me come to him, you know? He didn’t rush me.”
“In other words, you put the moves on him.”
She laughed. “Not exactly. It was just… well, a mutual thing.”
“I guess that’s the way love’s supposed to be,” I said. But I still couldn’t figure why she wasn’t more upset about leaving camp. Leaving Ross. I glanced over at her but didn’t say anything. She was the one who put it into words:
“I know we may not see each other again. But just to know that… that there are guys like him… I mean, that I could feel the way I do about him.… Well, that’s hopeful.”
“Very,” I said.
I had hoped, I guess, that Latisha would give some sign that she was sorry camp was over—that we had been kind to her, at least. But when she got off the bus, she saw someone waiting for her. She just gave us a shrug, and went over to him, dragging her bag behind her. It didn’t look as though he said two words to her. They just walked over to his pickup, he tossed her bag in back, and they drove away.
“I wish…,” I began.
“I know,” said Gwen.
Kim was the most affectionate, tearfully hugging us before she embraced her aunt. Mary and Josephine were pleased to see their foster mother and went rushing over to tell her about camp. Estelle’s caretaker was waiting for her, Ruby’s grandmother for her, and the only good-byes left were to the other assistant counselors.
Gerald, of course, went around awkwardly hugging all the girls, and we hugged back. We were a little more enthusiastic with the rest of the guys, and we all traded e-mail addresses.
It was Joe and Craig and Andy who did the major hugging. We’d already said good-bye to Richard and of course Ross, as well as to Phil and Sue and all the other full counselors, back at camp.
“What’s this? ‘Muddybiker’?” I said, looking at the screen name Craig gave me.
“Used to be ‘NearlyNaked,’ but I’ve grown up,” Craig said, and we laughed.
Finally—coming around the far end of the parking lot—was Elizabeth’s mom in their Oldsmobile.
“Hi,” she called. “I’m the designated driver for the four of you.”
Mrs. Price parked a few spaces away from where we were standing and—smiling warily, because she never knows when she’s going to set Elizabeth off—she got out and opened the trunk for our bags.
“Hi, Mom!” Elizabeth said, and actually walked over and hugged her. Mrs. Price was so surprised, she dropped the car keys but quickly hugged her back. All I could figure was that after listening to the kids at Camp
Overlook describe their home lives, Elizabeth must have decided that she was awfully lucky after all and that what mistakes had been made in the past were forgivable.
Dad was waiting for me when I got in the house, and I gave him a bear hug—two for good measure.
“Sure seems like camp agreed with you, honey,” he said, looking me over.
“You mean I’m fat?”
“I mean you look like you got plenty of fresh air and exercise.”
“I did. I ate everything in sight, but I guess I managed to work it off,” I told him. “Any word from Sylvia?”
“Things have settled down a little. At least Nancy’s no worse. The antibiotics appear to be working, but her kidneys have shut down and she’s on dialysis. Doctors are hoping that after a rest they’ll begin functioning again. But it’s going to be a long road, I’m afraid.”
I couldn’t bear the sadness in his voice. “Dad, does this mean that the wedding’s postponed indefinitely?”
“No. Sylvia’s already decided that once the danger’s past, we’ll set a date, whether Nancy can be in the wedding or not.”
If Nancy didn’t show, would that make me maid of honor? I wondered selfishly. What I said was, “Well, that’s good news, then. How’s Lester?”
“Well, he’s been out most of the time, but from the little I’ve seen of him, he’s fine.”
I liked coming home to find things going okay. Not perfect, but okay. Up in my room my rubber plant needed watering, but the jungle bedspread looked inviting, and everything seemed larger than it had before. There’s nothing like a bunk bed in a primitive cabin to make you appreciate the comforts of home.
There was a lot of e-mail waiting for me. I love to see the little yellow flag pop up on my mailbox, meaning that someone’s thinking about me, telling me something. There was even a message from Patrick. I read that one first:
Don’t suppose you can access your e-mail from camp, but here’s a “Hi” anyhow. Taking two summer school courses—European history and psychology—they’re more work than I thought. Let me know when you get back.
Patrick
Figured you’d want to know there are girls swarming all over me here in Texas. They seem to like a guy who s-s-stutters. Wish you were here to fend them off. (Don’t I wish!) Just wish you were here.
Eric
Saw Patrick at the mall, and he says you’re at camp already. Nobody tells me anything.
Jill
I called you last night, and your dad said you were at Camp Overlook. Sounds like something Leslie and I might like to do. We were talking about that the other day—how our ideal job would be guides in national parks. We both like to hike. Call me when you get back if you want to.
Lori
I told Jill you would be at camp. I don’t know why she thinks everyone’s in the loop but her.
Karen
P. S. Did you know that Mark and Penny are going out?
Whoa! I thought. Maybe Patrick and Penny really were kaput!
Lester came in about four. He’d been playing tennis all afternoon and was wet with perspiration, but I hugged him anyway.
“Careful. You’ll smell like eau-de-armpits,” he said.
“I don’t care. I’m just glad to be home,” I told him. “Everything looks good to me, even you.” Then I remembered. “Listen, Lester,” I said, pulling away from him. “It was you who blabbed to Jack Harrigan about the guys swimming naked, wasn’t it?”
Lester faked surprise. “Moi?”
“Yes, you! What did you tell him?”
“I did not tell him the guys were naked.”
“Well, what did you say?”
Lester wiped his face and neck with his towel. “I merely said that I understood there had been a shortage of swim trunks the other night and that I’d be glad to supply some.”
“Les-ter!” I bellowed.
“What’s this? What’s this?” Dad called from the kitchen.
“Nothing,” I said, and gave Lester a look.
Dad was making one of my favorite meals, shrimp gumbo, and we could smell it all over the house. It drowned out the smell of Lester’s sweaty shirt. “Who were you playing tennis with?” I asked. “Not Eva, was it?” That was one old girlfriend of Lester’s I couldn’t stand.
“No, there’s no woman in my life at the moment,” he said.
“Too bad,” I said, settling down on the couch with a magazine. “Take lots of cold showers.”
“Cold showers? Do I have a disease or something?”
“So you won’t keep thinking of sex, Lester.”
He laughed. “Cold showers can’t keep me from thinking of sex, Al. Acupuncture wouldn’t keep me from thinking of sex. Riots, floods, and heavy artillery wouldn’t do it. It’s carved in a man’s brain. There’s a little section up there between the right and the left hemispheres that’s labeled S-E-X. Besides,” he added, “from what I heard, there was a lot going on at camp besides toasting marshmallows.”
Dad came in just then with some lemonade for us while we waited for the shrimp gumbo to cook. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked cautiously.
“No, we’re discussing sex,” I teased. “Lester thinks there was a lot of it going on up at camp, but he’s dead wrong.”
“Glad to hear that. Nothing more serious than a little petting, I hope,” said Dad, trying to sound enlightened and cool.
“Petting?” I asked. He made it sound like a zoo!
“Letting a guy feel you up,” Lester translated. Dad sounds so antiquated sometimes.
Dad winced. “What has happened to the English language?” he complained. “That sounds so vulgar, Les. Can’t you at least say ‘fondle’?”
“‘Feel’… ‘fondle’… one has one syllable, Dad, and the other has two,” Lester said.
Dad smiled a little, shook his head, and went back to the kitchen. It was good to be home. I wanted Dad to stay like he was forever—wonderfully warm and caring and old-fashioned—and Lester to stay hip and funny. Then I wondered if I really knew what I wanted. Some things to change, I guess, and others to stay the same. Yet if things stayed the same, Dad would never marry. Pamela’s folks would go on fighting. You can’t pick and choose, I decided. Life happens, ready or not.
It wasn’t till later that evening that I remembered to call Patrick. Does that mean you’re over a breakup, I wondered, when you even forget to answer an ex-boyfriend’s e-mail?
I dialed his number. “Hi,” I said. “I’m back.”
“O-kay!” he said. “How was it?”
“Hard. Fun. Interesting. Exhausting.”
“Sounds so academic.”
“We went skinny-dipping,” I said.
There was a pause. “I stand corrected,” he said. “Just the girls?”
“Guys and girls together.”
“Not very academic at all,” said Patrick.
“So what’s up?” I asked him.
“I wondered if I could get some help on an assignment,” he said. “I could come over.”
“You’re asking for my help?” I said. “Patrick, I didn’t know there was any subject in the world you couldn’t handle.”
“Surprise!” he said. “In psych we have to do an interview, and I wondered if I could interview you.”
“Why?”
“We’re doing some kind of statistical thing. Data gathering and statistical correlation.”
Patrick’s advanced-placement courses always sound so impossible to me. “What do you want to know?” I asked.
“Well, I thought it would be easier if I just came over. That okay?”
“Sure.”
“About nine? It would help if you had a baby book or something—a record of childhood illnesses and stuff.”
“Yeah, I’ll look for it,” I said.
“See you,” he said.
“Patrick’s coming over,” I told Dad. “He wants to see my baby book.”
“Oh?” said Dad.
“Your baby book?” Lester sai
d. “Call him back and tell him there’s still time to cancel. Does he know you were born bald?”
I gave Lester a look. “Where is it? My book?” I asked Dad.
“The bottom drawer of my desk,” he answered.
It was a white book with pink letters on the silk cover: BABY DEAR. And there, on the very first page—I remembered it now—was the photo of me just a few hours after I was born, my eyes closed, mouth puckered, fists clenched. Lester was right. No hair whatsoever.
I carefully leafed through the book, because some of the photos were pasted in, some were loose. First Outing, it said at the top of one page, and there was a picture of Mom in a pretty spring dress, holding me up to the camera, a cotton sunbonnet on my bald head. Baby’s Friends, Baby’s Favorite Toys, Health Record, First Birthday…
Stitched to the page describing my third birthday was a lock of fine silky hair, blond with a faint orange tint to it. We’ve got another strawberry blonde in the family, Mom had written below.
A photo of me at Christmas on Dad’s lap, a photo of Lester, gingerly handing me a small car…
Mom’s notes: Alice Kathleen—a bright happy little soul!… Around the age of two, when Alice would discover a parent missing temporarily, she would say, “Where’s a mama?” or “Where’s a daddy go?”… Upon waking from a nap and seeing Lester’s shoes on the floor, she asked, “Where did feet go?”…
And further on: Age three: Was inspecting the beloved but raggedy bear she took to bed every night, which had long since lost its face, and said, “Daddy, we’ve got to buy this kid a mouth.”… Alice calls Lester her “bruzzer.”
Then three small pictures of my mother—holding me on a merry-go-round, blowing soap bubbles with me, kissing my forehead.… Suddenly that sinking, smothering, sad feeling. It comes on so suddenly that I don’t even feel it till it knocks me over, like a wave in the ocean. I gulp, I blink, I catch my breath, and then it’s gone. Sometimes it comes again within a week, and sometimes months go by without my feeling it. I told Dad about it once and he said, “It’s called longing, Al. It’s missing somebody.”