The Last Summer of the Camperdowns (21 page)
“Maybe my mother held out the hope that he would show up after all.”
Harry made his skepticism all too apparent. “Whatever helps you get through the school day.”
“Quit making fun of me.”
“Come on, Hoffa, you need to develop a sense of humor.”
Laughter wasn’t exactly a big staple of my repertoire, especially of late. “Is anyone what they seem to be?” I lamented.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think for the most part, people are exactly what they seem to be. You just need to pay better attention, that’s all.”
Harry slowed the car as we turned down the lane leading to my house. As we were passing the Cormorant Clock Farm, we spotted Gula out in the field with Boomslang.
“That guy, for example,” Harry said, squinting in Gula’s direction. “His soft voice and that phony deferential manner, his false gentleness. He’s not fooling me for a second.”
“What do you mean?” I could feel my heart rate accelerating, my hand reflexively covering my chest.
Harry shook his head. “Just something about him. You should stay away from him.”
“What do I have to do with Gula? Stay away from him? You don’t know what you’re talking about. When am I ever around him?” I struggled to find the door handle.
“Jesus,” Harry said as I lurched from the car. “Calm down, Hoffa.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I said, banging shut the car door to draw attention away from my lame riposte, striding melodramatically up the lane leading to the house. A few feet into my petulant march I got the strangest feeling that I was being watched. I looked around.
There was only the sight of Harry’s rear bumper disappearing down the road. Gula, his back turned to me in a gesture of vast indifference, vanished behind the trees, Boomslang’s tail dragging on the ground behind him.
Gula had been ignoring me for the most part, just as I had been avoiding him—as if what happened to Charlie Devlin on that June day was a sort of minor social embarrassment best handled by polite throat-clearing and an undeclared mutual understanding that criminality is a matter of etiquette.
The leaves, pale green and glistening, murmured as the tall grasses rustled across the dunes. My hair blew back off my face. The wind was getting stronger, white seagulls spinning against the conflicting air currents, the sky growing darker, the day erratic and unpredictable.
“Jimmy!”
I turned and looked down the lane in response to the familiar voice. Camp waved goodbye to his driver and started walking. I ran back down the driveway to meet him. He was wearing a suit and tie; no half measures for my father. The suit’s gray fabric intensified his green eyes and the ruddiness of his complexion.
“How come you’re home so early?” I asked him.
“I got out of there fast. They were the biggest collection of bores and windbags, each one with plans to deliver the same self-aggrandizing speech over and over. I thought I would go mad listening to them. There are many things worse than death, Riddle, beginning with committee meetings convened by people with good intentions.”
He loosened his tie. “So, anything of interest to report?”
“Nope.”
“Were you talking to anyone? Did you go anywhere?”
While other fathers I knew craved nothing more than to be left alone with a beer and a recliner, Camp loved to hear the latest. He never could resist a story about the crazy thing that someone we knew had said or done. Even as a kid, I felt more pressured than Walter Winchell to come up with the daily scoop.
“Oh, I know! One thing—Gin wants to cut down all those old trees behind the house.”
“What? Those trees are hundreds of years old.”
“He’s afraid they may fall on the house during a hurricane and land on his bedroom while he’s sleeping.”
“We can only hope.” Camp was both delighted and disgusted—his favorite combination of feelings. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Camp’s highest accolade! My inner high beams switched on, flooding me with light.
“That imbecile would obliterate all of nature if it meant keeping himself alive an extra day. The guy is absolutely terrified of his own mortality. Why else do you think he’s so obsessed with taxidermy?”
“He says it’s because he’s not afraid of death.”
“Ha!” With Camp savoring the opportunity to renew his boundless contempt for Gin, I searched my inventory for more material. While the visit to the forbidden zone of the Devlin house had given me an infinite supply of talking points, I decided on a less volatile but always reliable topic.
“Camp, did you ever think you were going to die in the war?”
Not looking at me—he always avoided eye contact when the subject was the least bit personal—he began to talk. They’d been marching for days, crisscrossing the Ardennes, he said. “We knew there was a river crossing ahead,” he told me. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wouldn’t make it to the other side of that river.”
His platoon started across the water and that’s when the Germans attacked. He was halfway across when he was hit. Shortly after that he was sent back home to the US on a stretcher. I asked him how he knew he wouldn’t make it across the river.
“I don’t know how I knew,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I just knew.”
We were almost at the house. I hesitated before blundering in. “Camp, if you knew that someone had done something wrong and you knew that by telling someone about what you knew you were going to get into big trouble, would you tell?”
His demeanor changed. He gave me a hard look. “You’re goddamn right I would. Do you know something?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me. Tell me what has you so upset.”
“Well . . .” My brickwork crumbling, I had barely begun to speak when we were interrupted by the architect in charge of my demolition. Gula called out to us from the road. He was on board Boomslang, taking a shortcut to the beach.
“Hello!” He waved and cupped his hand at his mouth, shouting, “Magnificent day for a ride!”
“Fantastic animal!” Camp hollered back. “I’m referring to the horse, by the way.”
Gula laughed, though there was no mirth in his eyes. Pulling up alongside us, Boomslang acting up a bit, sidestepping and refusing to settle, Gula, unfazed, looked at me with such ferocious precision that I felt as if I were undergoing a full-body X-ray.
“I’m sorry. I seem to have interrupted something. My little friend here seems to be upset. I hope nothing bad has happened.”
“No. We’re fine, just enjoying a little father-daughter time,” Camp said as I stared down at the ground.
“Riddle, why don’t you saddle up and join me?” Gula said. Shocked by the invitation, I stared up at him, speechless. He grinned, the force of his gaze pressed against my chest. I was finding it hard to breathe. “I’ll even pass on some of my trade secrets. Nothing like a great ride on a spectacular day to make us forget whatever it is that is bothering us.”
My father spared me the agony of an answer.
“Next time, Gula. Riddle and I have plans.”
“Of course. Next time,” Gula said as he tipped his hand to his forehead and eased Boomslang into a collected canter.
I bolted ahead of Camp toward the house.
“Hey,” Camp said, catching up and taking me by the arm. “Not so fast. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re hiding.” He paused and added, “Look, I’m not going to get mad at you.”
He wasn’t going to let this go. Camp wasn’t averse to using torture to extract information. Desperate to get out from under his inquisition, I knew I had to tell him something.
The last few weeks of my life flashed before my eyes. The barn. The fire. Gula. Charlie. I stared into my father’s eyes. I could have told him the truth, but I took another path. My words spilled out in a tumbling rush of tears. He had no way of knowing that I was confessing my cowardice.
“We went to the Devlins today to see Harry because he hurt his knee and he asked me to go to the basement and get him some whisky and I did it.”
“Jesus Christ. I thought I smelled something. Where is your mother?”
“She’s still there.”
“That little twerp was trying to ply you with liquor?”
“No! It wasn’t like that. I was in his bedroom and . . .”
“In his bedroom? What is your mother thinking? What is your mother doing? Supplying underage girls to the idle rich? You’re thirteen years old, for Christ’s sake!”
This was getting out of hand.
“Harry’s not like that. I’m not like that! I just took a couple of sips. Camp, you promised you wouldn’t get mad.” I swear he was leaking rocket fuel.
“Yeah, well, I lied. By the time I’m finished with that Devlin kid he’ll be drinking his dinner through a straw for the rest of his life.”
Ignoring my entreaties, Camp tore off his suit jacket and took off running. He hopped into the driver’s seat of the car, slammed it into reverse and disappeared down the lane in a swirl of dust and gravel. The wheels screeched as the car turned onto the highway and sped toward Truro. I watched the car until it disappeared.
Seabirds cried out overhead and, glancing skyward, beneath the acrobatic swoop of their disrupted flight patterns, I watched and listened, wary and attentive, full of regret and self-recrimination, waiting for what I knew was to come.
I looked down the road and Gula was there, stopped at the edge of the dunes, watching me, Boomslang fussing and prancing, rearing up, Gula fixed and unmoving in the saddle. A lesser rider would have been in a panic; a lesser rider would have been in big trouble. Gula might as well have been on a rocking horse, staring at me as I walked quietly toward the house, struggling all the way to keep myself from breaking into a run.
“S
O ARE YOU MAD AT ME?” I FINALLY GOT THE COURAGE TO
approach my mother later that day as she sat outside on the deck, sipping tea and staring out over the ocean.
“Why would I be angry with you?”
“Because I told Camp we went to the Devlin house.”
“So what? We did. I have no intention of concealing what I do from your father. If I had wanted a warden, Riddle, I would have opted for a life of crime. Obviously, I’m not happy about you drinking.”
“I wasn’t drinking. Taking a few sips isn’t drinking. What happened?”
She shrugged. “The usual. Camp made a great scene. Michael threatened to call the police and your father invited him to call in the Marines and the FBI. You get the picture.” She shut her eyes as if she was trying to stave off the painful effects of a migraine.
“Oh no.” I slid down on to the nearest chair. “Did he say anything to Harry?”
“Oh yes. Must say I was impressed with him. Harry, not your father. He took it like a man, faced down the werewolf, graciously apologized and offered up his throat.”
“I’m going to kill myself.” Pulling my feet onto the chair seat, I hugged my legs and buried my head in my knees.
“It might not be a bad idea considering the day’s not done. It will be a few more hours at least until your father assumes human form again. God knows what awaits.”
“Where is he?”
She tossed her hands in the air. “Combing the dunes, looking for cobwebs to fuel his wrath. I haven’t a clue. Oh, wait. Sounds like him now.”
The door opened and closed. We heard him as he walked up the stairs heading for the bedroom. My mother and I waited in silence for his inevitable appearance. Twenty minutes later, the garden doors opened and Camp, suitcase in hand, stuck his head outside.
“Riddle, your mother and I are separating.”
I looked over at Greer, who took a brief puff of a cigarette before answering my unspoken question: “I forgot to mention the divorce. It slipped my mind.”
Ignoring her, Camp continued. “Your mother will be keeping the house and all our possessions. You are free to join me. The decision as to where you wish to live is up to you. I’m checking in to the Blue Hydrangea and then I’ll look for a more permanent place to live. Think about it and let me know your decision.”
My mother kept shaking her head even after he had gone. “Even if he would just switch up hotels,” she said, wringing her hands in frustration.
Camp retreated to the Blue Hydrangea in Chatham every time he and Greer had a serious fight or disagreement. Each time he left, he invited me to make my own custody arrangement pending the divorce. Three days later, without explanation or fanfare, he would simply return home and act as if nothing had happened until the next blowout.
Greer leapt to her feet, leaned over and snuffed out her cigarette. “On the bright side, given the separation, I’m available to see other men for the next seventy-two hours. What do you think? Shall we make reparations and invite Harry and Michael over for a late dinner?”
“S
ORRY, HARRY, FOR HOW
my dad acted.” We were sitting on the beach watching the seals play on the sandbar, the sun setting in the background. My mother and Michael were on a walk; we could see them in the distance. I had no desire to look too closely. Greer carried her shoes in her hand and stopped occasionally to let the waves wash over her bare feet.
“You don’t need to apologize for your father. I don’t blame him for being mad. Just for the record, though, I wasn’t trying to get you drunk.”
“I know. I told him.”
“Why did you tell him anything? I don’t get it. You had to know he was going to erupt.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tattle, but he just kept at me until I finally broke down and told him about it to get him off my back.”
Harry ran his fingers through the sand, considering. “You know, Hoffa, you’ve really got to stop letting people push you around. You didn’t want to get the booze for me today but you did it anyway. You let your dad bully you into being a tattletale. You’re going to wind up being a professional victim if you don’t develop some balls.” He leaned in next to me. “One more thing. If my old man came after me about where I got the booze, I would never have given you up.”
I started to sputter reflexively just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the evening sky the same deep crimson color as my face. Distracted by the intensified chattering of the birds, I looked up to see Gin and Gula approaching.
“Hello, you two,” Gin called out. “I saw Michael’s car in the driveway and Lou told us you were down here. Honestly, Harry, I can’t believe that Greer invited you and your dad over for dinner and didn’t include me in the fun.”
“It was last minute,” I said, squinting over at them, my heart bumping, pinging arrhythmically in my chest as it did whenever Gula was near.
“Where’s Camp?” Gin asked, eyebrows arched in perfect synchronicity, two cats hissing.
“The Blue Hydrangea,” I said.
“Oh, dear. Fear not, Jimmy, on the third day he will rise again. Is that Michael and Greer down the beach?” Gin asked, cupping his hand over his brow. “What the devil? Think you two can shun me and get away with it?” He appeared to be talking to himself. “I’ll show them.” He set off at a run, careening shamelessly along the sand, like a wobbly torpedo programmed to hit its unsuspecting target.
“Why go where you’re not wanted?” Harry said as hundreds of seagulls, strewn across the beach like driftwood, dispersed squawking into the air to avoid Gin.
“Intrusion is the best that some people can hope for,” Gula answered as he strolled toward the edge of the water. He dipped his toe into the breaking waves. “On that note,” he looked at us, smiling, “I will leave you two young people to yourselves as I go for a swim. Forgive the interruption.”
“Not at all,” Harry said agreeably as Gula slowly stripped off his pants and shirt, folding both neatly in a tidy pile on the sand. As he bent over, the last remnants of sunlight caught the glint of a tarnished silver chain hanging from around his neck.
“Hey, you’ve got one, too,” Harry said as he instinctively reached beneath his shirt collar to retrieve his medal.
“So it seems we are both good Catholic boys.” Gula smiled.
“I don’t know about that,” Harry said. “Mine was a gift from my mother. I wear it to remember her.”
“Ah, yes,” Gula said. “Mine came to me from my grandmother. A lovely woman. She adored me. I told you about her, Riddle. Do you recall?” I nodded and looked away even as I marveled at his ability to deceive. Ironically, it never occurred to me that my own growing skills in that department warranted some of the same concern. He had never told me anything about any grandmother. Did she even exist? Gula seemed to have sprung fully formed from Vlad the Impaler’s forehead.
“I’m so grateful to Riddle for recovering it for me,” Gula said, running his hands through his hair, scanning the beachfront. Harry looked puzzled. I smiled and tried not to look stricken.
Gula took his time. He was enjoying himself. “She found it in the ruins of the yellow stable after the fire,” he explained. “I must have lost it in there when I was working. All I knew was that it was gone—I thought, forever. I can’t tell you what it means to me to have it back. My grandmother gave it to me during the war. All she wanted was for me to be safe in an unsafe time.”
“Is any time safe?” Harry said a bit desperately.
“You’re thinking of your brother—Charlie, isn’t it?” Gula said after a brief interlude of silence. “So sad. Terrible. No wonder you have lost your place. I have been through a few things in my lifetime, too. Don’t worry. After a time you will feel safe again.” He paused. “Though whether any of us should ever feel safe is the real question, isn’t it? Who, after all, truly knows the thoughts of another?”
I shifted uncomfortably, trying to suppress the urge to be sick, a surge of adrenaline poking me like the sharp fragment of a seashell. The medal had been hidden in the far corner of my underwear drawer. The unwholesome thought of Gula handling my intimate apparel, sniffing the air around him to avoid detection, was an image so quiet in its violence that I almost felt the pornographic thrust of his palm against my chest, the sheer psychic force of it temporarily paralyzing me, a low thrum of blood rushing through my veins.
These elegantly planned time-release revelations of his, malignant playful challenges in which he took almost sensual pleasure, were like perverse inverted seductions.
Harry and I watched Gula jog into the water and plunge into the noisy surf, vanishing beneath the indigo waves.
“Look out for sharks!” Harry hollered with fingers visibly crossed. Enjoying his wickedness, I perked up considerably at the thought of a great white shark biting Gula neatly in half.
“I always feel so much better after talking to Gula,” Harry said. I lay back down on my stomach and laughed into the top of my clenched hands, fists filled with leaking sand.
“Jesus Christ, the guy is like a haunted house,” Harry added, as I giggled away.
I don’t know what I was laughing about. Anyway, I wasn’t laughing for long.