Camp Pleasant (4 page)

“All right—
take it easy!
” Doc Rainey implored. “Slowly! Counselors, help! Line up everyone in two rows!”

After a sweat raising formation tactic, the boys finally stood in two wavering, occasionally cracking lines. Doc’s whistle pierced the air again and the boys gulped down noise into themselves. Whereupon Doc called out each individual name and told them to go and stand with their counselor. Thus it was that in forty-five minutes, I had my seven boys standing around me—my Chester Wickerly, a pudgy, freckled-faced 6-B Cagliostro; my Moody brothers, Jim and Roger, both lean and wearing shorts, both chewing gum, both carrying identical tennis rackets; my Martin Gingold, short, fat, slickly black-haired and wearing a red sweat shirt bearing the awesome title—
172nd Street Eagles
; my David Lewis, a good-looking little boy with that scared and transparent expression of the boy who has never been away from Mama; Charles Barnett, a husky, self-assured towhead; and finally my Anthony Rocca, a skinny, pale-faced runt, staring big-eyed at everything going on, mouth slightly gaping, lugging over his shoulder a
Louisville Slugger
that would have given Babe Ruth trouble. My heavenly seven.

At Sid Goldberg’s word, I led them to their summer home. In the cabin, they lunged for bunks and I had to separate the flailing Moody boys and make them flip a coin for upper berth. Jim won and a scowling Roger made up his lower bunk with angry, vengeful motions. I noticed how David Lewis watched, tremble-chinned, until the flurry over bunks had ceased and then, gingerly, took the remaining bunk. He put down his duffle bag and settled on the edge of the mattress looking around the cabin with an uncertain look on his face.

I sat on my bunk and watched them all while they made their beds, hung up hats, raincoats, Sunday pants, tennis rackets and fishing poles. I had to get up once to help David Lewis with his bunk. Finally, I sat down again and watched while they put on their bathing suits. David Lewis stayed on his bunk, looking around with timorous eyes while he changed, obviously embarrassed. The rest of them except for Tony Rocca stripped down with the casual aplomb of seasoned campers and had soon wriggled into their trunks. I noticed how skinny Tony Rocca was, getting the feeling that if he were put in front of a bright light, you could see through him.

Next came the physical. Barefoot and carrying towels, we all marched across the log bridge, past the dining hall and over to the line in front of the dispensary. An hour passed while the line edged toward the door and then we were inside, and Miss Leiber, gray-haired and curt, weighed, heighted, peered into ears, noses and throats, eye tested, took temperatures and generally examined. I noticed David Lewis shivering, on the verge of tears, and I put my hand on his shoulder. His cool skin twitched under my fingers and his eyes looked up fearfully at me.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” I told him.

The rest of the cabin except for Tony Rocca took the examination in stride. Tony kept asking Miss Leiber, “What’s that for, ma’am?” sort of distrustingly as each new part of his exam came up.

“To look at your ears with,” Miss Leiber said.

“What’s that for?”

“Your throat.”

“What’s that for?”

“Eyes.”

Finally, she just grunted and performed the examination in wordless haste. After it was over, Tony Rocca walked beside me as we headed toward the lake for swimming tests.

“I wasn’t scared when she stuck that stick in my mouth,” he told me.

“No, of course not.”

“Did you see that kid cryin’?”

“No.”

“He was cryin’ ‘cause he was yella. I didn’t cry.”

“You’re not yella.”

“Damn right,” he said.

The buoy-enclosed swimming area of the lake was white-spumed with splashing campers as we walked out onto the dock. The test for proof of swimming ability required a relatively serene trip out to the float and back again. Three rowboats sculled about en route, two counselors in each one, one rowing, the other with an oar, ready to haul in sputtering hopefuls who couldn’t quite make it. Mack was one of them with an oar.

None of my first five boys had any trouble. They splashed out to the float and back with the assurance of Weismullers in the rough. Nor could it be said that David Lewis had any trouble. When his name was called he simply informed Jack Stauffer that he couldn’t swim and was assigned to the Beginner’s Group, which group practiced their paddling in the roped-off shallows.

All through the tests, Tony Rocca stood beside me shivering.

“I can swim,” he kept assuring me, “I’m a good swimmer.”

“Fine,” I said.

“I ain’t scared.”

“Of course not,” I agreed.

“I’m a good swimmer.”

When his name was called, I saw the pupils of his eyes expand suddenly and, with a tightly twisted mouth, he lunged forward and flopped off the dock into the choppy water. He disappeared for a moment, then appeared on the surface, dark hair plastered over his forehead, arms and legs flailing as if he were fighting off a crocodile. Mack saw that it was obvious Tony couldn’t swim and stuck the oar down for him.

Tony wouldn’t take it. Gasping for air, swallowing mouthfuls of lake and gagging, he kept on, arms windmilling, legs kicking spastically at the water, then finally had to be dragged out.

“I can swim!” he yelled as they pulled him on the dock. “Leggo! I can swim, I can swim! God damn it,
leggo!”

“Beginner,” drawled Jack Stauffer, while Sid Goldberg lectured Tony on the subject of proper language.

When we left the dock, the other boys were laughing and Tony shivered and looked sick as he stumbled back up the hill to our cabin.

On my way down to the Nolan cabin with Bob, Sid Goldberg stopped me for a moment. Bob went on while I sank down on the camp chair beside Sid. It was just getting dark.

“How’s Tony Rocca getting along?” he asked me.

“Pretty good,” I said. “He doesn’t take care of his clothes, of course. He eats like a starving longshoreman and he has rather an advanced vocabulary for one of his tender years. But, outside of that—”

Sid didn’t smile back. He nodded his head slowly, looking out at the dark woods.

“I think you ought to know about Tony,” he said. “Ed doesn’t think I should tell you but—” he gestured vaguely with one hand—”well, this is strictly on the q.t.”

“All right,” I said, nodding once. “Anything you say.”

“Tony’s a charity case,” Sid said. “The camp board is paying for his summer here.”

“Oh?” I said, wondering if that was the dreadful secret.

Sid drew in a slow breath. “Tony spent last year in a mental institution,” he said. “No!”

He nodded sadly. “Tried to kill somebody.”

“Who?”
I asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Ed didn’t tell me. And I don’t care. What counts is that we make the kid forget, see that he has a nice summer. I don’t mean let him do anything he pleases; but—well, temper your discipline with a little extra understanding. In other words, handle him with kid gloves.”

I sat there, wordlessly disturbed.

“That’s about it,” Sid said. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep it in mind. It’s something I think you should know.”

“I think so too,” I said. “Why in hell didn’t Nolan
want
me to know.”

“I don’t know,” Sid said. “He has his own ideas.”

Not knowing just want Sid’s relationship to Ed was, I let it go at that. I thanked him for telling me and then moved down the trail to Nolan’s cabin.

I played chess with Bob. A few other counselors were sitting around the living room, reading, listening to jazz records and playing cards. Ellen didn’t show herself once although I could hear her moving around behind the closed bedroom door.

Around ten-thirty there was a crashing of breaking glass from behind that door and we all started.

“What’s that?” I heard myself ask.

“Guess she dropped a glass in the bathroom,” Bob said. “Check.”

I returned to the game, wondering why Ellen bothered me so. Was it because she was one among so many men? Miss Leiber was too old, Pat Stauffer too stuffy Was it that look in her eyes? Or was it my mind, desperately seeking some way to forget Julia? I didn’t know. I only know I couldn’t concentrate on the game until I heard Ellen moving around in the bedroom again; heard the sound of her sitting down heavily on the bed.

“Checkmate,” said Bob happily.

God knows whatever happened to Tony’s clothes. Sherlock Holmes could have gone stark, staring mad trying to keep track of them. After the first week I didn’t even try. Once in a while, maybe, I’d find a tee-shirt lying in the woods or, rummaging through the lost-and-found pile in the back of the dining hall, come up with an armful of shorts, towels, washcloths, handkerchiefs, and socks. About the only things Tony kept track of were his bathing trunks and his baseball bat; the latter because it was his pride and joy, the former because he wore them almost twenty-four hours a day and couldn’t very well lose them short of walking around naked.

To make it worse, those clothes that managed, somehow, to stay within the vicinity of the cabin were all monstrously dirty. I’d keep telling him to wash them.

“Just a little bit every day, Tony,” I’d say. “That way there’s no trouble at all.” Big eyes staring blankly. “But the way you let it all pile up—” Grave shake of Counselor Harper’s graying head, attempt by Counselor Harper to look effectively grim. All useless. Tony went to the ball field. Tony went to the lake. Tony read comic books and made a bead ring at the craft shop but Tony never washed clothes.

The other kids in the cabin went more or less regularly up to Paradise with armfuls of grimy wardrobe, washed them in a sink with soap chips provided by the camp, hung them in the sunshine, then put them away in their trunks, if not clean at least sweeter smelling. Tony paid no attention. It got to the dismal point where his only apparel, outside of the bathing trunks, was a pair of dirty white ducks and a dirtier red sweater. After the second Sunday service he wore this outfit, Ed Nolan cornered me with the decree to “get him on the ball,” “get him in high gear” and thus and so.

So, the next day—Monday of the third week, I wouldn’t let Tony out of the cabin. Almost forcibly, I removed the enormous bat from his shoulder, peeled off his cap and sat him down solidly on his bunk.

“Today we wash, Tony,” I said, adding quickly as he stared to argue, “But me no buts, Anthony. We
wash.”

“But I got a
series
game, Matt!”

I knew that Tony was, to put it mildly, imagining things. Usually he went to the ball diamond, shillelagh bobbing over gaunt shoulder, then sat there on the bench and watched, the bat end resting on the ground between his feet, held like an old man’s cane. Once in a while, maybe, some desperate boy would ask Tony to have a catch with him. Even less frequently, some team would be so far behind in runs that they’d let him play outfield where he’d have one hell of a time dropping every flyball that came to him, grinning widely at the groans of his teammates and firing the ball back with a vigorous dispatch—usually over third base onto the road.

I stood unmoved and adamant. He struggled at first with many a “But
Matt
” and a “I
gotta!”
thrown in to bolster his struggle to quit the cabin. I persevered, however, and, finally, failing with the overt method, Tony slumped on his side on the bunk and stared at the wall, occasionally dropping a phrase which, although muttered under breath, still managed to reach me.

“All right, never mind the cussing,” I said. “Your clothes are filthy. You are a disgrace to the good name of Cabin Thirteen. You will
wash.”

And, with that, I laid the behemoth bulk of his laundry bag by his side.

“Come on now,” I said, “either you wash or I go get Sid.”

Tears in his great, confused eyes; a curl to his lips.

“I know,” I said, “you’re in beautiful agony. Now are you going to wash your clothes?”

“I got a
series!”
Vehemently; voice of the betrayed.

I left to get Sid. When we returned to the cabin, it was empty. The laundry bag was gone too.

“Well, either he dumped it in the lake or he’s washing,” I judged.

We found him in Paradise, surrounding by mountains of dirty clothes, cursing heartily while he scrubbed at the sink. As Sid and I entered, the cursing stopped and the scrubbing increased a little. When we reached the sink Tony looked up at Sid with sorrowful pleading in this eyes.

“Gee, Sid, I got a
series
game.”

“Tony, until you learn to take care of your clothes, you can’t expect to play ball.”

Silence, then scrubbing and a muffled, “Don’t know why I came to this lousy goddam camp anyway.”

I left, hearing, as the screen door closed behind me, those familiar lines from Sid, “Now, look, Tony. Matt is only doing this for your own good.” And the sullen reply, “I know.”

Later, I returned and found miles of clothes hanging on the lines beside Paradise. None of them were clean, of course, but they were all wet anyway. I felt that was the most I could ask on such short notice.

When I reached the cabin, Tony was just coming out with his bat.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” he said. “I’ll try better. I’m gonna wash a little clothes every day and then it won’t pile up.”

“That’s fine,” I managed. “That’s the stuff, Tony.”

“Ain’t that the best, Matt? A little clothes every day?”

“Sure. That’s the best, Tony.”

He left for his imaginary series game, leaving me in pleasant shock. After less than two weeks, a slight change for the better. He was sorry. He was going to “try better.” It made me feel very good.

After dinner, came the balancing act.

Toward the end of the rest period, Mulhausen of Cabin 14 pushed the old wheelbarrow up the hill from the lodge, stopped in front of each cabin and tossed a stack of letters on the face of the poor counselor who was trying to catch a little sleep after knocking himself out for fifty minutes trying to keep the kids quiet.

I handed out the letters that particular day, noticing that there was one from Tony’s mother. It was the first letter he’d received since camp started and it pleased me to watch him settle down on his bunk and, excitedly, tear open the envelope.