Camp Pleasant (8 page)

“Look,” I said, “either you promise me you’ll take it easy or you’re staying right here in the dispensary. I
mean
it now.”

Hangdog expression Number 7-b. “Awww,
Matt.”
A tired, a sadly-patient
Awww Matt
.

“Look, Tony.” I lifted his chin with a finger. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

“Sure, Matt, but—”

“Well then. I don’t want to see anything more happen to you. Will you promise me you’ll do as I say?”

“Aww….”

“For
me
, Tony?”

“ Awww … o-
kay
.”

I nudged a friendly fist against his jaw. “Good,” I said. “Come on, we’ll play some checkers.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you.”

We returned to our cabin where I taught Tony the intricacies of jumping, kinging and such. I let him win two games and the edges of his grin touched both ears. This lasted about an hour or so. Then Tony read comic books while I worked out a program of easy, almost monotonal songs for Wednesday might’s movie intermissions. I padded time as much as possible but then I knew I had to go and gather up the scattered pieces of my glee club to rehearse them for the Sunday service.

“Now, look, Tony,” I said, explaining the situation, “I’d like to stay with you but I’ve got work to do.”

“Aw, I don’t wanna just stick around here, Matt,” he said, having finished all available comic books and lying on his bunk, chafing at invisible bit.

“ Well….” I wracked my brain for a solution; which came even though it was a risky one.

“Now, listen to me,” I said, sitting on his bunk. “If I let you go to the ball field will you—”

“Oh, boy!”

“Now,
listen!”
He closed his eager mouth. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll just sit on the bench and
watch.”

“Awww, M—”

“Tony.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Look, if you don’t do that, I get into trouble. I’ll get bawled out for not taking care of you, don’t you see that? I might even lose my job. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

He shook his head. “No, Matt.”

“Well then?”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “I promise. I’ll just watch ‘em.”

“All right,” I said. “I believe you.” As I said it, I got the distinct feeling that it might have been the first time in Tony Rocca’s young life that anyone said to him—I believe you.

As an indication of purpose, he left his beloved
Louisville Slugger
behind and walked off politely to the ball diamond, wounded hand in pocket. I got together my music and started for the dining hall. It was while I was crossing the log bridge that the tan coupe pulled up in front of the office and braked. Out of it came Jackie dressed in tight denims and a snug black gaucho shirt. I started forward and called him but he didn’t hear and went into the office. A sinking sensation crowded my stomach. I trudged across the clearing, bracing myself for what I hoped was not to follow.

As I came up to the screen door of the office, I heard Ed talking to Jackie as he might address a backward child.

“Told him t’take his junk
with
him,” said Ed. “Nothin’ left around here’s far as I know.”

“But I was
told,”
insisted a dulcet-voiced Jackie.

“Sorry, boy. Don’t know a thing about it.”

“Well
. I certainly don’t understand this.”

I stood out by the car until Jackie came out, his face a mild summer storm. When he saw me, he smiled.

“Well, hello there,” he said. “Maybe
you
can—”

“Listen,” I said hastily, “Merv’s things are on the porch of the grocery and drug store up the road.”

He looked surprised. “Oh, are you the one who—”

“Look,” I said, “I’m in a hurry. Do you know which store I’m talking about?” “Well, I—”

“As you go up to the road, turn right,” I said. “It’s just a little ways down the road on the left-hand side.”

“Oh.” He nodded his head once.

“Where’s Merv?” I asked, glancing nervously at the office.

Jackie smacked his lips in disgust. “Gone back to the city. He left on the bus this morning.”

“Oh. You know where to go now?”

“Yes. But, tell me….” He twined lax fingers around my arm. “Who
is
that great
oaf
of a man in there?”

“He’s our leader,” I said and started away from Jackie.

To feel a stiffening of momentary shock as Ed Nolan came out of the office door, his face filled with displeased curiosity.

“What’s goin’ on here, Harper?” he asked. “What’re you talkin’t
‘him
for?”

A moment’s reprieve saved me as Jackie gunned his motor too much, then geared it badly and started up the slight incline that led to the road. When the noise of the motor had faded, I said that I’d told him where to find Merv’s belongings.

“What’ve
you
got t’do with his belongings?” came the inevitable question.

“We met him on the road last night,” I said.

“Who’s
we?
”

“Dalrymple and I,” I lied on. “We were coming back to camp when we met Loomis.”

“What time?” he asked.

“About ten-thirty, I guess.” I allowed time for Merv’s discovery on the dock, his packing, his beating and then his starting up the road.

“What’d he tell ya?” Ed asked, looking very suspicious.

“Said he was fired,” I told him, calmly. “Asked us to put his stuff somewhere for him.”

“That’s
all
he said?” asked Ed and, for one muscle-tensing moment, I heard that same crawling undertone of irrational violence in his voice.

“That’s all,” I said. “Why do you ask, Mister Nolan?”

“Never mind that,” Ed said grumpily. “What the hell are
you
doin’?”

“Getting ready to rehearse the glee club,” I said, feeling a slight measure of enjoyment in the realization that, although Ed despised the very thought of taking boys off a ball diamond and into the world of melody, he couldn’t do anything about it short of giving me carte blanche to loaf.

“Oh,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Fine,” I said. “Very good.”

“They were kind o’ flat last Sunday.”

“Oh? I didn’t notice.” I knew he hadn’t either.

“Well….” He looked vaguely disconcerted. “Get on with your work.” Turning, he trudged back to the office.

I watched him a moment, then, dumping my music in the dining hall, I began the great trek about camp to gather up the unwilling complement of my club of glee.

It was about an hour later amidst struggles with a wounded and dying
Onward Christian Soldiers
that the screen door of the dining hall wailed open and heavy, sneakered footfalls intruded. I glanced over and saw Big Ed approaching. About the same time, the boys saw him too and, in piecemeal fashion, stopped singing.

There was a vengeful look in Ed Nolan’s eyes as he came up to me.

“You were told t’take
care
o Rocca,” was the first thing he said.

A spasm of fear contracted my stomach muscles; not fear of Ed’s displeasure but fear for Tony. “What happened?” I asked quickly.

“I found him up at the
ball
field,” he said testily. “That how you take care of him?”

“You mean he—”

“He’s s’posed t’be in his cabin!”

“Is there anything wrong with him?”

“Anything wrong? Naw, naw, not a thing. He’s only got a bandaged foot and a bandaged hand!”

“I don’t mean that,” I said. “I mean have his stitches opened or anything like—”

“Never mind,” said Big Ed.

I realized suddenly that little pitchers with grandiose ears were absorbing the entire scene. “All right,” I asided to them, “all of you wait outside till—”

“That’s enough
singin’,”
Ed immediately countermanded. “Go get some sun and exercise.”

“Yay!” A general cheer, a general, floor-shaking exodus around my fuming self.

“I can’t very well improve their singing without practice,” I said irritably to Ed when the sound of running and screen door slappings had abated.

“Never mind that,” he shunted me aside again. “Let’s get somethin’ clear right now, Harper. You’re responsible for your cabin—
twenty-four hours a day!”

“Mister Nolan, was Tony Rocca playing ball?”

“He probably would’ve at any second,” he answered. “That would’ve
really
taken care of his hand.”

“Mister Nolan,” I said, “I knew Tony Rocca was up there. He—”

“You
knew
it!”

“Will you let me finish?” I snapped, catching him flat-footed. “I gave him permission to go up there on the stipulation that he wouldn’t do anything besides sit there and watch.”

His repressing of anger was plainly visible but he managed it. A look of contempt crossed his features.

“And you believed him,”
he said.

“Yes,”
I said, “I believed him. I thought it was time somebody had a little faith in the kid.”

“You know
all
about him, don’t ya?”

“I know enough,” I said, not thinking.

The lines of his face tensed into lines of hard curiosity. “
How
d’ya know?” he demanded suddenly. “Who told ya?”

“Tony,” I said.

“Did
Goldberg
tell ya?”

“No. Tony told me.” I had to swallow but I didn’t.

“I don’t like lyin’ from my counselors, boy,” he said. “If I find out ya been lyin’….”

He left it unfinished, potential. There was silence a moment, each of us staring at the other. Then he turned away, and casually, dropped behind him these words.

“Go help Rocca pack. He’s bein’ transferred.”

“What?”
I started forward with a jerky movement. “Transferred? What for?”

He stopped and whirled. “Because you don’t know how t’take care of him, that’s why!” he stormed.

I shuddered back, thrown off balance by the vehemence of his attack. “That’s not true,” I said. “It’s not true at all.”

“I s’pose ya call lettin’ him get cut t’
pieces
takin’ care of him!”

“These things weren’t my fault,” I said. “Besides, they’re not the important—”

“Aaah, get out o’ here!” he snarled. “You’re like all of ‘em; you so- called brainy boys. All talk and no sense. You’re bluffs,
all
o’ ya!”

“Sure,” I said flatly. “Whose cabin is Tony going to?”

Was that a smile? “MacNeil’s” said Big Ed Nolan.

I turned away. “That’s
swell,’”
I said.

Walking back to the cabin, I wondered why Ed hadn’t fired me. The only thing I came up with was the fact that he was already short one counselor with Merv ousted. He didn’t like me but he couldn’t spare me. Not yet.

I found Tony in his bunk, burrowed under the covers, trembling with soundless sobs. I felt tightness fill my chest and throat as I stood by the bunk, looking down at him. Then, with a very tired sigh, I gathered together his things and put them all in his near-empty trunk. Across this I laid his bat like a squire laying down the sword of his slaughtered knight.

I sat down on the mattress beside him. “Tony.”

Silence. I put my hand on the shaking lump that was his head. “Tony,” I said again, “Pull the cover off your head, Tony. I want to talk to you.”

“I ain’t
goin’!”

“Tony, take down the blanket.”

“No, I ain’t
goin’
!
“

Gently, I drew back the covers. His thin cheeks were wet with tears.

“Tony,” I said, hoping I’d just imagined the break in my voice.

“Why’d ya
let
‘im?” he asked me pitifully. “Why’d ya
let
‘im, Matt? You
said
I could go t’the ball field.”

“I know, Tony,” I said. “There was nothing wrong in your going. Mister Nolan just thinks there was.”

“Then I don’t have t’go?” His thin voice rising hopefully.

I sighed. “I’m afraid so, Tony,” I said. “That’s what he wants.”

He drew in a sob jerkily, his chest shaking with it. “Who’s he think
he
is?” he asked. “King
Shit?”

“Shhh, Tony,” I said. “That won’t help.”

“I
hate
‘im,” he said bitterly. “Who’s he think he is?”

“Come on, Tony,” I said. “I think we’d better get it over with.”

“But I
like
this cabin. I know all the fellas in it.”

“I know, Tony,” I said. “But I can’t do anything about it. Really I can’t Tony.”

“No!” he sobbed, tears pulsing from his eyes again. “I ain’t goin’. He can’t make me! The dirty son-of-a—”

My finger over his lips cut him short. From the mouths of babes, the phrase occurred ironically.

Then Marty Gingold came in from the dock, dripping lake drops on the floor. He stared at Tony with that brutal frankness of the young. “What’sa matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. I got up and blew out a disgusted breath. “Come on, Tony,” I said. “You’re only going next door.”

“No.” Sullen; without hope.

“‘S he bein’ transferred?” Marty Gingold inquired interestedly.

I nodded curtly. “I’m going next door a second, Tony,” I said. “Get your things moved now.”

“No.”

“Who we gettin’?” asked diplomatic Marty Gingold. “Hope it’s someone that can play ball.”

“Shut the hell up,” said Tony.

“Fungoo,” answered Marty.

“Oh … shut up both of you!” I muttered irritably as I went out of the cabin.

I found a disgusted-looking boy flinging clothes into a trunk with furious motions. I glanced at the empty bunk.

“So you’re the one,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Riley!”
He flung the words the way he flung his swim suit into the trunk. “What’s
yours? “

“Mud,” I said. He paid no never mind.

“What’sa
matta
with this dump
anyway
?” he asked angrily of the air. “Why the hell do I have t’transfer for some lousy wop!”

“He isn’t any happier about it than you are,” I said.

“Then what the hell’s he
comin’
for?”

“Politics,” I said.

“So
what
!,” he answered.

That was when I heard the thumping and the bellowing curse from my own cabin.
“Oh….”
With a curse of my own, I lunged out the doorway and bounded to the steps of my cabin.