What It Was Like (7 page)

≁

By the time I got down to the Boys' waterfront, I had missed the big hoopla of the Redheaded Doggy passing his swim test to get into Area #3, the deepwater area. He was the last Doggy to pass into Area #3, which removed from his head the social stigma of having to buddy up with a lowly Junior during General Swims. I was sorry I missed his triumph, but made it up to him and the rest of the Doggies that night. I gave them a pizza from the Snack Shak after “Taps” and the long-postponed recitation of
The Raven
in my best fake-Boris-Karloff accent, postponed “nevermore.”

≁

I was/am an extremely private person. Maybe it's because I'm an only child who had his own room all his life, but I have never liked being the center of attention of a group. I think that if by magic I were to be offered any superpower, it would be invisibility. But that was not the case at Mooncliff because it wasn't long before the whole camp knew that we were “going.” Rachel was well known at Mooncliff not just because she was related to the Marshaks and had been going there since she was seven, but because she was one of the prettiest girls there. She was conspicuous. I, on the other hand, am nothing to look at, but since I was the new guy who had “got Prince,” I became an object of curiosity and some admiration too. And after I kicked butt in an Evening Activity of Counselor
“Jeopardy”
– at Dale's urging, for the sake of the Inter Boys' team – as Rachel cheered openly for me, it was impossible to hide our relationship. (I think that was the night that she really fell in love with me.) At first, I didn't care what anyone else thought. I could take any number of “Beauty and the Beast” jokes. Not that I'm that ugly; it's just that she's that pretty. And what did it matter anyway? I had Rachel.

Of course the Doggies immediately became my “assistant boyfriends” to Rachel (in the words of the Smart Doggy). They glommed onto her wherever she was, followed her around, and did her all kinds of unnecessary favors: things designed to curry favor with her and to annoy me. I didn't like the extra attention they brought to us. I wanted “us” to be a secret, living in The Zone, and strictly minding our own business. (You see how that turned out.) But I understood. The Doggies liked being around this very pretty, very interesting, very charismatic girl. Everybody did.

I think the Doggies really fell in love with her at an Inter picnic, night swim, and long session of “The Hokey Pokey” when Rachel said that she could out-arm-wrestle my entire bunk. I intervened to save her the effort and embarrassment (I mean,
my
embarrassment), but she was determined to prove her point. Hell, I could never stop Rachel from doing something once she decided that she wanted to do it.

So with the entire Inter nation – all the boys and girls – watching, Rachel put the Doggy Bully's arm down – (he was designated as the Representative Arm for the entire bunk) – onto the surface of the picnic table in two perfect, steady, agonizing seconds. The girls cheered, and the boys jeered.

“You let a girl beat you!” they shouted. “A
girl
!!” as the Inter girls danced and twirled in victory.

Another battle between the sexes won, another battle lost, I took the Doggy Bully aside and comforted him.

“It's OK, kid,” I told him. “It won't be the last time that happens, that a girl beats you.” But he still cried in my lap like a baby.

When I saw Rachel later that night at the Snack Shak after we got the kids into bed, I felt her upper arm through the softness of her must-have-been cashmere sweater.

“So you
are
pretty strong,” I said.

“I told you I was,” she said. “I don't lie.”

I reached out to touch her arm again, but she shrugged it away.

“And it's not my arm that's strong, silly,” she said. “It's my will power.”

I had to smile at that. She looked so tough and cute at the same time.

“Your will power is fantastic!” I whispered, leaning in to her.

“Why don't we get out of here?” she said. Which was exactly what I was going to say.

≁

I couldn't see her enough. (As I said, I'm not stupid: I
know
what's good.) And fortunately Stewie cut me some slack so I could get extra time with her. In all other cases, I tried to fit my schedule around hers. Why? So we could be together. After dinner one night, I switched my Free Play coverage of the baseball diamonds with Big Alby who was on waterfront duty and wanted to play baseball anyway. Rachel and I sat by the lake all Free Play as the sun set over the lush mountains, golden flecks dappling the water. Kids came and went, pestering us, but what did it matter: we were in The Zone again.

“I talked to my mother on the phone,” Rachel said. “Which was a huge mistake.”

“Why did you call her then?” I asked.

“I had to get her to send me some medicine,” she replied.

I decided not to ask
what
medicine.

“But we got into a fight, of course,” she said.

“Over what?” I asked.

“Nothing. Her same nonsense. It's the middle of summer, and she's trying to tell me a million things I have to do the moment I get home. It's just so unnecessary. And now with the divorce becoming final, I'm supposed to feel sorry for her because
she's
the victim!
She
got walked out on. Poor baby. I would have walked out on her too! I know she grew up poor in Brooklyn, and her mother beat her, and her father walked out on her family when she was little. All that is awful; I know. But on the other hand, who cares? That doesn't give her permission to ruin
my
life just because
she's
unhappy and screwed up!”

No question that she was extremely passionate and precise about her situation, about everything around her, really. I watched her face, her gestures, her body movements; I didn't say that she was beautiful when she was angry, but I thought it. I also thought that I would not like to be on the receiving end of her anger, but I would be willing to risk it. A girl as strong as Rachel needed a strong boyfriend.

She said that she really didn't like her mother's new boyfriend, a lawyer named Herb, who was helping her mother in the divorce proceedings.

“By ‘helping,'” I said. “You mean ‘making things worse.'”

“Exactly!” she said. “There's something very creepy about this guy. I've met him a couple of times. He pretends to be nice, but it's that
creepy
kind of nice. I'm pretty sure he's the one who insisted that I come here, back to the Shak, all in the name of trying to keep things
normal
for me. But I know it was because he wanted my mother all to himself. Yuck. But he'll be sorry – super sorry. He shouldn't go up against my father. My father is someone you do
not
want to go up against.”

“I'll remember that,” I said, wondering how screwed up Rachel's family actually was. Lots of money and a nasty divorce going on. Difficult mother, frightening father,
and
the mother's creepy boyfriend? I could see that getting involved with Rachel would mean, to some extent, getting involved with these people. I still remember another thing she said that chilled me to my insides: “
How many times do you have to be told that your parents would never have gotten married if only your mother hadn't gotten pregnant before you believe it?
” What a thing to say to a kid, I don't care what the circumstances are. But, looking at her, I knew that all that didn't matter. I would go a long way for this real live beautiful, emotional girl.

“I
really
don't look forward to going back to school,” she said cheerlessly. “I've cut off most of my friends, or former friends. Or rather, I've allowed them to cut
me
off. I guess that's the way I'm
supposed
to see it.
I'm
the outcast. But you can imagine what the kids in Oakhurst are like: fairly shallow, fairly stupid. I guess it's good that I like to be alone.”

“Good,” I said, touching her hand. “I like to be alone too.”

“Well,” she said with a sweet, shy smile. “Then just possibly we can be alone
together
. Right?”

The bugle call sounded Retreat, echoing around the campus from the P.A. system, ending Free Play.

“Time to go and be responsible,” I said, standing up.

“What's the Evening Activity tonight?” she asked.

“Campfire
and
hootenanny. I'll toast you a marshmallow,” I said, bringing her to her feet for a last kiss until the next time I saw her.

≁

The one place where we felt semi-safe was the Quarry. Around the Moon-shak, there were always campers and other counselors and all the various supervisors watching us. But whenever we could steal an hour, the
same
hour, we would meet at the Quarry. It was this huge, abandoned bluestone quarry that was actually off Mooncliff property, but a short walk from the end of the pitch-and-putt golf course through state land on this old abandoned trail. Over the years, the Quarry had filled up with water and was now an enormous swimming hole/dumping ground/lovers' lane for the kids of Boonesville. Rachel and I would go there to be away from Mooncliff and the world, and sometimes it worked.

“This is huge!” I said the first time I laid eyes on the Quarry. “I see why people come here! This is truly cool!”

The surface of the water must have been as big as a football field, and the walls on all sides were tall and sheer. The drop from the edge of the rock face down to the water must have been a hundred feet. It took about a good ten minutes from the end of the last golf hole, walking down a weed-trampled trail through the forest, to get to the Quarry, but it was worth it.

Pointing across the water to the other side, Rachel said, “That's where the Boonies go to park and make out.”

“That's what Marcus said,” I replied. “But we can make out right here.”

I took her in my arms for a long kiss. It felt great to hold her, knowing that no one was around to see us. We could really relax.

“It's so peaceful here,” she said, after the first round of kisses. “I wish we could stay all day. No Estelle, no Harriet –”

“No Serious Sara?” I added.

“She's not so bad,” Rachel said. “But I just want to be with you. Not those bratty kids. Am I right? . . . Do you not
agree
?”

After that, we kissed more. I don't know for exactly how long, but I, being older and supposedly wiser, stopped us before things went too far. We had to be back at camp soon, before too many people missed us.

“Look!” I said, breaking the kiss.

There, about thirty yards away from us munching on the leaves of a bush, was a very large deer – a beautiful deer with a completely white, almost albino face.

“Sssshhh!”

We both looked in absolute silence as the deer looked back at us with an almost
human
disdain. We had invaded the deer's domain, and she didn't mind us as long as we behaved ourselves, kept our distance, and didn't make any sudden movements.

“Bambi's mother,” Rachel whispered.

“It's her turf,” I whispered back. “We're privileged to be here.”

Rachel held close to me as we watched the deer eating leaves and watching us at the same time. Her eyes never strayed from us as her jaws kept chewing and chewing.

“She must hate Mooncliff,” Rachel murmured. “She must hate
all
people. She's probably right. Think of what we do to Nature –”

Just then we heard two loud popping noises, like gunshots, from
across
the water. All of us – Rachel, Bambi's Mother, and I – swiveled our attention to the far side of the Quarry. There, at the top of the rock face was a large truck that was backing up to the very edge. Its engine backfired loudly as it inched backwards until it was on the verge of falling into the water far below.

Then, the whole bed of the truck slowly tilted up and all this junk that was in the back spilled out and tumbled in an enormous clatter down the sheer rock face. I saw what looked like an old stove, a floor lamp, at least a half dozen tires, some wooden crates, and a bunch of stuff I couldn't identify crash into the water with this huge splash that echoed around the Quarry for a good five seconds.

“That's disgusting!” Rachel said. “They're littering!”

“I thought the Boonies used this as a swimming hole,” I said. “How stupid.”

“Well,” said Rachel. “Apparently they also use it as a garbage dump. . . . Trash dumping trash.”

Some of the junk sank immediately, but some of it floated on top for a while. The truck drove right away, but we watched until all the junk had finally disappeared under the surface, in a pool of bubbles that finally popped and resolved.

“What idiots,” I said.

“They don't deserve a place like this,” said Rachel. “
She
does.”

But when we looked over at the bush where Bambi's Mother had been standing, the deer was gone.

“She got out while the getting was good,” I said.

“Smart girl,” said Rachel. “We have
got
to come back here!”

And we did.

≁

“Hey! Kid!” someone called me.

It was Dale, walking my way on a hot afternoon. I was coaching the Inter C softball team – the kids who really couldn't play at all – in advance of a big intercamp game against hated rival Camp Tioga. He had been across the wide playing field at the “good” baseball diamond, with the A team, coaching the kids who actually could play.

“Come here a minute,” he said, sitting down on the bench in the shade and leaving room for me. “Let 'em play catch for a while.”

I walked toward Dale, shaking my head, saying, “They're
trying
 . . .” I plunked myself down next to him heavily. “We had 'em shagging some flies. You should have seen the collisions.”

“As long as there was no major damage,” he said. “But you might want to consider putting Dornfeld over there in a crash helmet before he kills himself.”

I stifled a laugh as we watched one of my prime klutzes miss another one.

“They're very good at the ‘Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate'
 
cheer,” I offered, which got a chuckle out of Dale.

He was a pretty easy-going guy and seldom made fun of the campers, at least not the way we other counselors did. (We weren't really mean about the kids, but jokes are jokes, and guys are guys.)

“You know,” he said, spreading his arms out on the back of the bench behind us. “I like the way you handle your bunk. I've seen how you talk to your kids, even the pain-in-the-ass ones. You're a natural counselor.”

I couldn't believe that he said that. I thought that I was actually a pretty ordinary, if not downright mediocre counselor. I really didn't
love
being with the kids the way I thought I was supposed to, the way guys like Stewie did. I did my job and wasn't a completely unfair jerk to the kids, but that was about all. Stewie was the one who gave them wedgies and went on “Noogie Patrol,” play-terrorizing the Doggies at bedtime to their giggling delight. He's the one who helped them break their baseball gloves in with neat's-foot oil. Stewie was the one forever organizing games of two-hand touch football for the Doggies and lots of kids from other bunks, where they could try out the elaborate trick plays and double-reverses he would concoct, plays that “humiligrated” the opponents of his junior varsity team at Dumpville State in Western Mass or wherever he went. I mainly wanted the kids to leave me alone.

“Thanks, Dale, but –” I started to say, but he cut me off, pivoting around to look straight at me.

“But don't be
stupid
, boy,” he said right into my face. “People have eyes.”

I am seldom accused of stupidity (except by myself, of course), so I was a little taken aback by Dale's words. I really didn't know what he meant. When I didn't respond immediately, he leaned into me and whispered harshly

“
The girl
!
 
You've got to watch yourself around the Prince girl,” he continued. “I'm saying this for your own good. I know she's pretty and everything, but people are watching the both of you. And there is some . . .” he paused, “
concern
about her.”

“‘Concern'?” I said to myself. “Concern about what?”

“You really want to get involved with a girl like that? A loose cannon? And related to the owner?” he asked, rapid-fire. “Come on, be smart boy. I don't care how pretty she is. Believe me, life is complicated enough.”

I knew that I should say something, but I didn't say what I wanted to say, which was:
Mind your own business, Dale! I'm entitled to see whomever I want to see, as long as I'm doing my job!

Instead, I let him talk.

“You know me. I just want the summer to go smooth. When I get heat from above, well,” he said as he stood up. “I don't like heat.”

Heat from above?
I thought. Who did he mean? Jerry? The Marshaks?

Instead, I just said, “OK, Dale. Thanks for the heads up. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said. “You're just young, the both o' you, and you're going much too fast. That's all.” He picked up a bat from the ground as he got up from the bench. “As I said, I just like things to go smooth. Trouble for my counselors makes trouble for me, and I
despise
trouble. Especially on a beautiful day like this.”

He looked down on me, to make sure that I got his meaning, and tossed the bat back on the ground, clattering against the other bats loudly.

“I hear you,” I said as simply as I could. I didn't say that I agreed with him, or promise him anything. I just said that I heard him.

“For a smart guy, you certainly know how to piss a lot of people off,” said Marcus as we herded the kids back to the bunks after baseball.

“What did I do?” I shot back at him. “I'm a good counselor. I do my job. Dale just said so.”

“You know what I'm talking about,” he said. “Every spare moment, you're with Prince. After meals, during Clean-Up, before dinner. I know how many activities you skip out of to go hang with her.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But he doesn't know that unless someone tells him.”

Marcus didn't say anything. Which made me wonder if he was ratting me out to Dale and/or Jerry.

≁

I wanted to talk to her after dinner about what Dale said, but I couldn't. Jerry pulled me away at the beginning of Free Play to go with Stanley Marshak to talk to some big-shot doctor from Boonesville who went to Columbia a zillion years ago. Mooncliff liked to maintain good relations with the locals. After all, most of the kitchen and grounds staff came from Boonesville and the surrounding white-trash towns. Sorry to be so blunt, but that's what they were.

I talked – or rather this old Boonie doctor talked – almost all Free Play about his good old days at Columbia (the College
and
Physicians and Surgeons) and taking a course with Lionel Trilling (which is what everybody at Columbia says) while I stood by and nodded politely, occasionally chuckling at one of his bad jokes. Stanley Marshak was there next to me, grinning with fake pride, rocking back and forth in his shoes and patting down the wiry ends of his moustache nervously. All I wanted to do was get away from them and see Rachel.

That afternoon, all during a long, humid, gnat-attracting nature hike, I thought about her and her plans for us. I had little patience for the Doggies who were screwing around as Stewie and I herded them along the forest trail, trying to keep things orderly for Norm the Bug Guy, Mooncliff's elderly and revered nature counselor who was at the head of the line. The Doggies were in an especially rambunctious mood. They were in the middle of this week-long laughing mania over the word “groin.” (“Hello, Mr. Groin!” . . . “Stop looking at my groin!” . . . “Would you like some groin on your salad?” . . . and calling Stewie and me “The Groinmaster” and “Assistant Groinmaster” respectively.) For a while, it was funny. After a couple of days, I and especially Stewie wanted to strangle them.

“There is no such thing as a private life in places like this,” Stewie lectured me as we walked behind the last and slowest of the hikers. “Everybody knows everything about everybody, and what they don't know, they make up.”

“Great,” I said. “People don't know everything or
anything
about me. People are, for the most part, ridiculous.”

“You're just finding this out?” Stewie said.

“No,” I said. “But when they start to affect your life –”

“What are you gonna do?” said Stewie. “They
have
you. You're an employee.”

“Yes, I'm an employee,” I said. “But they don't
own
me. I'm still a free human being.”

“Now who's being ridiculous?” said Stewie.

I didn't like to think that Stewie was right, but, in this case, he had a point.

≁

As it turned out, I never found Rachel during Free Play. I took as hasty an exit as I could from the chat with the doctor from Boonesville and Stanley, but I never tracked her down. I did catch up to her later that night after Evening Activity (the Lads and Lassies assassinated
The King And I.
) As everyone was going back to their bunks, with kids rushing everywhere and clouds of moths all around the floodlights outside the Rec Hall I went looking for her. Instead, she found me.

“I can't believe it!” she said, pulling me aside. “First, they force me to help with the make-up before the show so that I can't see you. And now they want me to sit O.D. tonight!”

“But C.I.T.s aren't supposed to sit O.D.,” I said. Which was the truth.

“Harriet said it would be good ‘counselor training' for me,” she said, her mouth twisting sarcastically on the offensive words.

“But I thought you were such a terrible person, with wrong priorities,” I said. “Now they want you to sit O.D.?”

“They say they want to give me more
responsibility
,” she said. “Of course, there'll be another counselor there with me, so it's all completely a farce. But there was . . .something else.”

“What?” I asked. I could tell it was something that embarrassed her.

“… I slapped one of my kids,” she said.

“And you got in trouble for it?” I exclaimed, thinking how the boy counselors regularly abused their campers, if only to keep them in line.

“Well,” she admitted. “It was across the face.”

“Oh, that's not good, I guess,” I muttered.

“Hey,” she shrugged. “I've been slapped across the face plenty of times. The girl was
completely
out of line.”

I let that pass, but I didn't like to think of Rachel being slapped across the face, or the fact that she was so casual about it.

“Are they gonna make any of the
other
C.I.T.s sit O.D.?” I asked.

“No!” she said. “I asked Harriet about just that, and she said that I –”

“
Rayyy-chllll
!”

Her kids called her, and Serious Sara was standing right there with an impatient look on her face, so I had to let her go.

“You should go,” I said.

“This is completely unfair!” she said.

“I know,” I comforted her.

She moved closer to me and whispered with a wicked smile, “You want to come visit me?”

Her look excited me, I admit, and from that close I caught a whiff of her fresh, perfume-y self, but I said, “Uhhhh . . . I better not. You
know
they'll be watching you, waiting for you to screw up.”

“You're right,” she said glumly. “You're being good. Ugh.”

“I want to keep us out of trouble as much as possible. That's what a good boyfriend does, right?” I said.

“I guess so,” she murmured adorably.

“So, I'll see you tomorrow?” I tried to sound positive and upbeat, which I think she appreciated. But even though she knew that people were watching, she kissed me firmly on the lips before she ran away through the crowd toward her waiting campers and Serious Sara.

She didn't look back, so there was nothing left for me to do but herd the Doggies back to the bunk with Stewie and get them into bed, all the while making alternative plans for the rest of the evening. Stewie offered to give me a ride in the Super-Coupe into Bailey's, but he was going with Marcy, and I didn't want to be a third wheel. Instead, I did what most of the counselors who didn't go into town did: went and hung out at the Snack Shak in the bottom of the Rec Hall.

There was a jukebox there, and a ping-pong table, and you could get food from the canteen. There was usually a poker game going, small stakes only. Occasionally, the ping-pong games, especially among the guys, could get a little heated. Stewie almost got into a fistfight with Billy something, one of the Southern guys. In any case, it was a place to unwind after a day of brat-watching/counseloring.

When I walked into the Snack Shak, I could smell the greasy hot dogs being grilled and hear the Young Rascals' “You Better Run” pounding out of the jukebox. If this were a normal night, I'd be walking in and I'd see Rachel there – either at a table with some of her friends, or by the jukebox – waiting for me. And I'd go straight over to her, and that was that. But it wasn't like that tonight. I was alone-alone and didn't particularly like it.

“What's with you?” said Eddie from the Bronx, who was at the counter, waiting for his jumbo dog and lime Rickey. “What are you doing here?”

“Rachel's got O.D.,” I said simply.

He looked at me for a moment, then guffawed like a donkey for a couple of moments. I just stood there and endured it.

“Wait a second,” he said. “Isn't she a C.I. – ?”

“Forget what you're gonna say,” I cut him off. “You know rules are different for different people around here.” I drummed on the counter, deciding if I wanted to waste my money on some junk food.

“Wow,” he said. “Heavy.” Nodding in agreement and turning to look up and down at the back of Edwina, the chubby Boonie in charge of Snack Shak who was preparing his food.

“Who is that, Harriet?” he asked, guessing who had changed the rules. “Bitch.”

Which made me snicker. Everyone – or, let's say, a lot of people – hated Harriet. Rachel and I weren't the only ones.

“So why aren't
you
in town?” I asked him as we walked over to a little table and sat down. I decided not to get anything to eat. All they had was junk there: any candy I wanted I could always take from the Fat or Very Fat Doggies. They had plenty, and I was doing them a favor.

“And spend all my paycheck before I even
get
it?” he said scornfully. “Halfa the guys've already been drawing on their paychecks, just so they can go into Bailey's and spend it getting drunk. I want there to be
something
left at the end of August.”