The Night of the Moonbow (31 page)

Again his eye swung to Dagmar, bent over the keys, her body “helping the music,” playing effortlessly, with great delicacy, traces of a smile now on her lips. Yes, she seemed to be saying. This. This is what I hoped to hear, these notes, this music . . . this, my young friend . . .

Beyond the doors and windows, the sky had darkened so that additional lights had to be switched on to illuminate the room, their beams throwing circles across the plastered ceiling. As Dagmar took a hand from the keyboard to switch on the little vellum-shaded lamp at her shoulder, Leo’s glance flicked along the row of faces, moving from one camper to the next, from Tiger to the Bomber, to Emerson Bean and Junior Leffingwell, from Pete Melrose to Gus Klaus and Oggie Ogden, all listening to him.

The piece ended, too soon, he thought, and marveled that it had gone so quickly. “On the wings of song,” wasn’t that what she’d said? To fly on wings?

He heard the applause, saw Fritz’s nod of approval, and he glanced again at Dagmar, waiting awkwardly while she riffled through the stack of music at her elbow. Approving a selection, she beckoned him to her side. When he saw its title, he felt a pang of fear. It was the Paganini Caprice in A Minor. But before he could protest she was off. He must follow. He touched his bow lightly to the strings, jerked his chin up, and he was off too. There, you’ve got it, he told himself as the notes danced into the air, light and bright and intricate, like so many children at play. His bowing hand flew, and his spirit soared with the music. He glanced at Professor Pinero, who sat now with his head against the back of his chair, eyes almost closed, on his face what Leo judged to be a look of approval. Glancing sideways now, he kept his eye on the tip of his bow. It was moving with control and rhythm, the angle changing as it made itself felt upon the strings, the bony wrist and long, thin fingers drawing forth the music. And, ah, the music! The melody seemed to pour from the curved belly of the violin to float upward to the ceiling, then come flooding down and out, filling all ears. He was performing with an assurance that was undeniable, his body hunching, tilting, swaying as he drew the melody to its sharp, pizzicato ending.

There was a moment’s silence. Dagmar took her fingers from the keys, eyes shining with pleasure, while Leo, stiffly dropping his arms and instrument to his sides, stared at the floor. Then the wave of applause washed over him. A deep peal of thunder sounded, rolling across the valley, ominous in the way of all thunderclaps heralding storms, yet, for Leo, somehow a sovereign sign of his victory. He glanced at Reece, who was applauding -perfunctorily? - with the others. Swallow that, Heartless, he thought, giddy with happiness. Chew on those glissandos awhile.

Not knowing what else to do, be bowed slightly, catching sight of the smiling professor, who called, “Encore, encore!,” to which solicitation Dagmar added her own, beckoning him with a curled finger and asking what pine he would give his audience now.

“Poor Butterfly” was Leo’s choice. He plucked a string, giving Dagmar the key, and the room quieted again, but before they could begin their attention became unfocused, as outside, with a swift inevitability, the rain began to fall, first in a spasmodic patter, big, fat drops playing a ploppy sort of drumbeat on the tree leaves, beating on the roof; then, after this prelude, as if making up its mind to spend its force in a single assault, in an overwhelming surge.

Inside the room, once more the musicians picked up their cue and began to play. Once again Leo felt his eye drawn to Reece - and he knew surprise, elation, jubilation. Whatever Reece was now or might yet become, when Leo played he was every bit as good, every bit as powerful, as rich, as glamorous. He turned his eyes back to Dagmar, whose eyes enlarged fractionally, telegraphing her message: Fine, keep it up. And he thought, What if I hadn’t tried? What if she hadn’t made me? Would I ever have known this feeling? See what we’ve accomplished, her smile seemed to be telling him. Isn’t this rich? Isn’t this fun?

And it seemed to him as he played that through the bars of music Emily had stolen in among them, to stand in the shadows with gleaming eyes, a hand at her breast, nodding, smiling, singing .. . yes, there, just there. She parts her lips, the words flow from her mouth.

Poor Butterfly!

’Neath the blossoms waiting

Poor Butterfly!

For she loved him so.

Beyond the windows the full fury of the storm was upon them. Flickering zigzags of lightning daggered down from the sky to blast the valley, exhilarating, blue-white electrical bolts betokening more mighty thunderclaps. He was remembering again now the night of the big storm at

Saggetts Notch, that night, in the house on Gallop Street, when they were in the parlor behind the big doors. He’d been scared . . . he’d taken out his violin and played to calm himself but . . . Rudy ... the footsteps on the stairs, the door flung open, the dark, enraged face in the doorway, the loud, bellowing voice—

“No rhapsodies in this house!”

Suddenly he faltered - a second only, but his playing suffered as a result - and just when things were going so well. His glance entreated Dagmar for help; she gave him another encouraging nod and went on, and so did he, but it was no good. At every instant he had to fight the overwhelming urge to bolt, to run from the room and hide somewhere. Yes, run - upstairs - around the newel post and up the steps that creaked, hearing the crashing outside, the rain rattling on the panes, to hide under the bed.

Only there was no “upstairs” here in this house, no newel post, no squeaky steps, no bed to hide under, no Rudy behind closed doors.

Why then?

Something . . .

God! What was it? He saw the thing, or thought he did. Nearer it swam, and nearer, that bright little fish, only to flash out of reach, mocking him as he failed to grasp it. He felt queasy, feverish. His hand shook badly. It was Major Bowes Night all over again. He was going to make a fool of himself. Oh no, not that - don’t let that happen this time, he prayed. But the boys — the rows of faces were staring, wondering, smirking at him. He struggled frantically to stay with the music, but now every note he played, every beat and pause called to his mind - Suddenly it was upon him, suddenly Dagmar’s music room was another room, in the house on Gallop Street, and the smell of it was strong in his nostrils, it was making him sick; he was going to vomit.

He felt himself gagging as he struggled to go on with the music while jagged flashes of lightning, dark, light, dark, silver and black, black and silver lit up the room, throwing everything, listeners, furniture, objects, Dagmar, the professor, into garish relief. And there were others ion - yes, now, among the familiar faces of the boys, others had begun to materialize - Rudy Matuchek, he was there, and John, yes, John Burroughs, he was there too, and Emily - Emily! Where was she? She had been there too, but where was she now? Though he felt her presence, he could not see her. How could he when he was upstairs, in his room on Gallop Street, hiding under the bed while the thunder crashed around the rooftop and the lightning flashed and—

He heard the angry shouts from below, heard the scream, and he disobeyed, opened the door, rushed into the hall, looked over the railing into the vestibule, and at that moment saw—

God!

He threw his head back and through the oval of his mouth wafted a long, wavering scream, like a ragged scarf being flourished he stared saw clutched in Rudy’s upraised hand the bright flash of steel, poised to strike at John no, not at John, whose bleeding body was already staining the floor, but "No! Stop! Don't'"

The violin and bow hung limp at his sides as he stared at the scene being played before him, as he watched Rudy’s knife blade complete its downward path to find its mark in Emily’s breast and the blood pour forth like the water from a spring and she fall like a heap of rags upon the floor. He saw Rudy drop the knife, heard the knife clattering on the floor, saw Rudy dash through the open doorway, out into the rain and the wind.

Mother!

Mother!

MOTHER!

The sounds echo in his head, reverberating as through endless, empty caverns, and the icy rain sweeps in across the doorsill and into the front hall, soaking the rug, while Leo lies on the floor beside Emily, staring at her face, which even as he watches loses color, never moves, becomes a dead face . . .

Another thunderous blast shook the music room. Leo cringed, staring at the ranks of questioning faces, hearing the strangled noises pouring from his mouth, unable to stop them. His violin and bow had both fallen from his hands. Panicking, he crabbed his fingers on- the ebony piano top and his fingernails dug savagely into the silken threads of the Spanish shawl, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the fabric, the roses red as ... as blood. Then, as Dagmar, still at the keyboard, came to her feet, he jerked backward in a quick, stumbling move, his fingers dragging the shawl from the piano top, carrying with it the bust of Beethoven, the Chinese vase, everything crashing to the floor and shattering. He saw Dagmar reaching out her hands toward him, but before she could prevent him he eluded her touch and rushed blindly from the room. Fritz, who had sprung to his feet, hurried after him, while behind Dagmar Professor Pinero barred the door to the others.

)

“Where is he?” Fritz called to Augie, who pointed to the music cupboard. Fritz opened it and peered into the narrow space. In the corner, eyes large and staring, Leo cowered.

“Leo - what is it? What’s the trouble?”

"He killed her!” he cried, staring.

“What? What’s he saying?” asked Dagmar, coming in behind Fritz.

“He killed her!” Leo shouted again, his eyes filled with terror. “Mother! Mother!” He burst into an agony of sobs.

“Hush, hush, my dear,” Dagmar said, and, kneeling next to Leo, she took his hands and tried to reassure him. “Come, child, you mustn’t do this.” She looked frantically at I t it/, as Leo scuttled toward the wall like a frightened animal. Hugging his knees, he sank into the corner and buried his head in his arms. His shoulders shook, his sobs mounted hysterically, and he cried out once more “he killed her,” while beyond the hundred windowpanes in the library the thunder rolled down the darkened valley, like tenpins being toppled in a giant’s game of skittles, a chain of echoes dying away one after another into silence, dull, unnatural, and forbidding.

PART FOUR:
The Night of the Moonbow

And so it had begun, the most besetting calamity that can happen at any summer camp, a solid week of rain; and just when the end of the month saw a troop of fresh arrivals being registered by Ma Starbuck and settled into the bunks reluctantly surrendered by departing campers. This was no way for new boys out to enjoy themselves for the rest of the season to be introduced to camping among the pines of Moonbow; from Virtue through Harmony to High Endeavor the cabins were shut up like so many wooden boxes, each a dark, damp, lantern-lit world of its own, inside which random campers, bored and restless, idly resorted to games of Parcheesi and Monopoly, to gum-card-scaling tournaments and hours-long bull sessions. Cornsilk consumption rose, and there was a brisk trafficking in printed contraband like Film Fun, The Police Gazette, and Pic and Click. Gus Klaus upped his status all along the line-path by reading once again to all comers the smuttiest passages from Studs Lonigan, while the most adventuresome campers, in quest of the bizarre, the prurient, or anyway the novel, ducked into the mephitic atmosphere of Malachi to take a gander at “Big Billy” Bosey exhibiting his boner from under an Indian blanket.

At intervals dreary, sodden processions of rainwear-clad boys slogged their way about, from lower to upper campus for meals and crafts sessions (though the rain came in through holes in the barn roof), then back again, and a seemingly endless stream of disgruntled campers flowed through Wanda Koslowski’s dispensary, exhibiting swollen thumbs pinched in falling cabin flaps, burns from the careless lighting of kerosene wicks, bruises and contusions from slides in the wet mud, even a sprained ankle (Emerson Bean, ever fortune’s fool, slipped off the lodge porch on the second day of the deluge). And many was the camper obliged to force the hint of a smile in response to the hoary chestnut Pa Starbuck loved to pull on any unsuspecting passerby:

“I sure hope this rain keeps up.”

“Why’s that, Pa?”

“ ’Cause if it keeps up it won’t come down.”

Ha ha. Joe Miller lived.

A primary victim of the camp’s darkened mood was Leo, who, unable to comprehend fully the knowledge that had been thrust so blindingly upon him at the Castle, felt more keenly than the others the growing disquiet along the line-path. By the time he had been driven back to the Castle that afternoon in Dagmar’s Pierce-Arrow, Word of what had happened was all over camp, and there was no escape from the jokes about his “Major Bowes nuttiness.” Maybe, they said, Wacko Wackeem should just quit “fiddling around.”

Secretly, Leo was almost glad about the jokes; anything was better than the boys’ finding out the truth: that his stepfather had murdered Leo’s mother and her friend. Of this, no one must know, never a word. For the rest of his stay at Friend-Indeed he must confide in no one - not even Tiger, who, whatever questions he might have been itching to ask, like the true friend he was, by neither sign nor word indicated that he expected or even wanted to be let in on things. Loyally he took Leo’s part, standing up for him and telling the others to shut up and mind their own business. But his defense only caused Leo pangs of guilt. For what did friendship mean without trust? Yet how could he level with Tiger when doing so would only brand Leo a liar? How could he confess what he now knew to be so: that Rudy the butcher was still doing time in the state pen for manslaughter, Rudy Matuchek, the notorious “Butcher of Saggetts Notch,” whose picture had been in .ill the newspapers?