Fear of Frying (5 page)

“Even Sam?" Jane asked, hoping the answer would allow her to finish her eggs.

“Oh, Sam's been the perfect son." Eileen said it flatly, without a hint of sarcasm. "But even he's gotten a little snappish lately, which is weird because he's usually so cool and in control of everything. And Marge is a nervous wreck. You saw that last night. The parents are old and feeble and can't last forever — I hope. I know that sounds cruel, but I've never, in all these years, had a kind word from them. Oh, well, I didn't mean to chew your ear off about this.”

Jane had managed to finish her breakfast.

She smiled and said, "No problem."

When everyone had finished breakfast, the tour of the camp commenced with the kitchens, which were much larger than Jane would have guessed. Given enough staff, a great many people could be fed at once. And there was plenty of room for staff to live along the corridor leading off the kitchen area. Benson explained that, as with most summer resorts, the bulk of the employees were college students.

“It's harder to find a reliable supply of workers during the school year, but we manage," he said. "We usually close the Conference Center and just cater to small groups that occupy the cabins."

“What about our own teachers we'd bring along?" Liz Flowers asked briskly.

“They could stay in the cabins, provided reservations are made well in advance, but you'd probably want them in the Conference Center with the students," Benson replied. "And there would be an extra charge, I'm afraid."

“Oh, yes. They'd definitely want to be with the kids in the Conference Center!" Bob Rycraft said enthusiastically.

Shelley muttered to Jane, "Handsome, but dim. Why would any sane adult
want
to be locked up with a bunch of teenagers day and night? I had a great-aunt who decided to spend her sunset years as a housemother in a boarding school. She lasted one semester and needed years of psychiatric care to get over it. She tended to drool, and become startled at sudden noises."

“I guess there are people like us who manage, sometimes with considerable effort, to love our own teenagers, and then there are those rare and misguided individuals who love all of them," Jane said, shaking her head. "He appears to be one of those. Just wait until all those little girls of his hit puberty about the same time."

“People like him must have suffered either a great deal more or a lot less of the usual angst when they were teens, I suppose," Shelley said. "I can hardly think about those years without shuddering."

“Ladies?" Liz said sharply.

They hurried along to catch up with the group. They exited from the back door of the staff wing, turned right, and walked down a long, winding incline at the bottom of which was a spectacularly beautiful lake. It was fronted by a beach of sorts — not sand, but shingle. A small dock had a single elderly rowboat tied up, and there was a large swimming dock farther out. A shed contained a great many neon orange life jackets, and an old-fashioned wooden lifeguard tower stood sentry. A list of commonsense rules was posted on the front of the tower.

It was cool enough that the thought of swimming made Jane shiver, but in the summer it would be a different matter.

“We're lucky that there's a very slow, gentle slope here," Benson was saying. "And over there, the roped-off area is only four feet deep. That's where we give beginner swimming lessons. Oh, I almost forgot to mention poison ivy."

“There's poison ivy here?" Marge asked.

“There shouldn't be," Benson said with a smile. "I've conducted a war against it ever since we arrived. I don't think there's any left, but I have a handout with drawings and photos of it for you. If anybody sees so much as a leaf of it, please let me know.”

Jane glanced around at the group. Liz, naturally, had a clipboard and was taking notes like mad. She even had a tape measure and marked down the height of the lifeguard tower. Bob Rycraft had gone down to the shoreline and was smiling and nodding, no doubt picturing the lake full of happy kids who would go home and say no to drugs and study like mad, all because of two glorious weeks at camp. Al Flowers had wandered over to the tower and, hands in pockets, was looking up as if contemplating someone other than himself climbing it.

The Claypool brothers were standing together, talking quietly, probably about cars, not camp, Jane guessed. John, the big, blond, beefy younger brother, had his hands clasped behind his back and was looking down, nudging a rock around with his toe. It was a curiously subservient pose for the bigger, brasher man to take.

Meanwhile, Sam's wife, Marge Claypool, was glancing uneasily at the dense woods, looking very nervous, and John's wife, Eileen, had found a log to sit on. She'd taken off her shoe and was massaging her foot.

Benson, apparently realizing that he was being largely ignored, stopped explaining the lake and safety regulations and left them to their own thoughts for a few minutes before saying, "Okay, let's go back up the hill and look at the Convention Center.”

Eileen Claypool grunted slightly as she laboriously leaned forward to put her shoe back on and gather up all her loose belongings. Even for this tour, she was loaded up with jewelry and tote bags.

The Convention Center turned out to be a large, plain building to the north of the main lodge. It was clearly newer than the rest of the camp: two stories, white clapboard and faintly naked-looking. Though neat and freshly painted, it had no shutters, no foundation plantings, almost no ornamentation at all.

“A bit of an abomination, isn't it?" Shelley said under her breath.

“It certainly doesn't fit in very well," Jane responded. "Sort of like a habited nun at a cocktail party."

“Yes!" Shelley said. "The kind of habit with the big white winged headgear.”

Either Benson or the architect had attempted to make the big building look friendlier by adding a porch outside the front door. But it was little, flimsy, out of proportion, and looked as if it had blown up against the building and was merely resting there for a moment before moving on about its business.

The inside of the Convention Center was much Like the outside: plain, clean, practical, and aggressively boring. The ground floor contained a dining area with a practical, spotlessly clean expanse of blue linoleum flooring, white Formica tables, and folding chairs with blue seats that just missed matching the floor and consequently made both look shabby. The rest of the area was for exhibits and meetings. There was sturdy carpet here and lots of room dividers.

Overall, Jane found it terribly bland and depressing, especially in contrast to the cozy cabin she and Shelley were sharing. But the kids wouldn't care. They'd be outdoors most of the time and more interested in each other than the building. If kids cared about their surroundings, she reasoned, their own bedrooms at home wouldn't look quite so much like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

Benson led them downstairs, where there were locked storage bins that looked like little jails and a very large room with a whole fleet of room dividers on wheels. Benson explained that the dividers were specially designed to provide soundproofing, so many small meeting rooms could be constructed by just sliding them around.

Next they went from a center staircase to the second-floor dormitory area. A long, single hallway stretched both ways. He opened a couple doors along it to let them look at the rooms, which were sparse but neat. Each had a single bathroom with a shower stall, a big window that looked out over the woods, either two or three single beds in various arrangements, a functional, indestructible desk, and several chairs. It looked like one of the dormitories of Jane's youth, and she found herself wondering how any adult could survive staying in someplace so essentially "institutional" without going screaming mad.

Shelley was watching her reaction. "Bad vibes?" she asked.

“Very bad," Jane admitted. "And I don't know why. I think I must have been in a mental institute that looked just like this in a previous life.”

Shelley nodded. "Or a sanatorium where frail Victorian ladies went to die of tuberculosis. Still, I don't think the kids would care. And when they get their own 'stuff' in here, it'll look more cluttered, if not better.”

When they came back out into the hallway, the rest of the group was milling around, seemingly as anxious to get away as Shelley and Jane were — all, that is, except Liz, armed with clipboard and asking Benson about heating and cooling, elevator-inspection schedules, handicapped access and fire regulations and all the practical considerations Jane never would have thought of.

Al Flowers was standing next to them, leaning against the wall and watching his wife. "Isn't she a wonder?" he said admiringly.

He was just what Jane needed at that moment. A big, gooey jolt of contentment. A man who was proud of his wife. "You're a good man, Al Flowers!" she said with a smile.

They gathered up Bob Rycraft, who seemed determined to enthusiastically examine every room, and left the building. "Now we're in for a bit of a walk," Benson warned them cheerfully, "but it'll be worth it."

“I'll bet," Eileen Claypool muttered. She had developed a serious limp.

The group returned to the main lodge, circled it, and continued south along the road that ran past their cabins. Benson took it slow and easy, allowing them to stop in their cabins and get cameras (Liz and Shelley), binoculars (Marge), Band-Aids (Eileen), and take bathroom breaks (Jane). Just beyond the cabins, the road turned into more of a path and rose slightly.

“Look at Marge," Shelley whispered.

Jane glanced back. Marge was walking extremely close to Sam, surveying the woods around them with quick glances. "She doesn't like nature much, does she?" Jane whispered back. "I guess the outdoors just isn't for everyone."

“She's been jumpy the whole time we've been around her," Shelley said. "It's odd. I don't know her well, but I've been on lots of committees with her. She's always seemed shy and retiring, but more placid than nervous."

“Well, there
was
that face she saw at the window.”

Shelley shook her head. "No, I noticed it before she had her screaming fit. It's like she was already scared of something. Or somebody.”

Jane looked at Shelley sharply for a moment, then laughed. "You've let the dreary atmosphere of the Conference Center get to you. Next thing you'll be wanting to stay up late with the lights off and tell ghost stories. And maybe drop aspirin in your soft drink to get drunk.”

The next stop in the tour of the grounds was much more pleasant. It was one of three campfire sites.

“We believe that preparing and eating food outdoors can be enjoyable," Benson said as they came up the last small rise. "It doesn't have to be hot dogs and hamburgers and potato chips. It's possible to cook a really fine meal over a campfire. This is where we'll be eating dinner tonight, and I'll be demonstrating some outdoor cooking techniques you might enjoy.”

It was a nicely mowed area encircling a large campfire site. A low wall of fieldstone defined the fire area, which was already stacked with logs and ready to be lighted. There were a few well-tended chrysanthemums blooming around the nearer side of the grassy verge.

“Oh, Jane!" Shelley said, grabbing her arm. "Look at that view!”

Turning around, Jane realized the woods had been skillfully cleared to offer a view out over the cabins and the lake beyond. She also couldn't help noticing that the sky was clouding up and there was a chilly wind. "Eating dinner here might be a nippy proposition," she said.

“I don't suppose you brought long underwear?" Shelley asked.

“I don't
own
long underwear, Shelley. I live in a house, not a tent."

“Never mind. I brought extra," Shelley said.

“Of course you did," Jane said. "You're always prepared for anything. But Liz has a tape measure along. That puts her a point ahead of you.”

Shelley looked at her, slitty-eyed. "Wanna bet?”

Liz was asking Benson about medical services.

“The closest fire station," he said, "was just beyond the road where you came in. Before you crossed the bridge. They have an ambulance. The county hospital is five miles from here. We'll have a nurse on duty who can treat minor injuries."

“Poor Benson," Jane said. "I'll bet he didn't expect to be grilled quite so thoroughly."

“But he's got all the answers," Shelley pointed out. "He's obviously done his homework."

“He does seem awfully eager to impress us, doesn't he?" Jane said.

“For all his scruffy looks, he's a businessman, and that Conference Center must have cost a fortune," Shelley replied. "He might have overestimated the number of people who would want to use it. This school thing would bring in a lot of m—”

Just then Marge screamed again.

“Sorry, ma'am, didn't mean to scare you," the newcomer said.

He was a tall, dark man in his fifties with alarmingly heavy eyebrows. He'd come, silently, by some other route than the rest of the group and had taken them all by surprise, though only Marge had such a violent reaction. He was dressed all in khaki, including his Smoky the Bear hat.