The Last Summer of the Camperdowns (23 page)
“Well, that makes one of us,” my father said. “You are aware, aren’t you, Michael, that you aren’t the victim in all of this? Your son is the victim here. You know that, right?”
Michael said nothing. He and my father looked at each other for a long time. I held my breath. My mother seemed suddenly compelled by the state of her fingernails. There was a secret negotiation going on. I was too scared to look at the police. Surely they sensed the same undercurrents that threatened to sweep me away.
“I don’t need any reminders about who the real victim is here,” Michael said.
“Look,” one of the cops said. “We don’t need to make public the contents of your conversation with Charlie, if that’s what you’re worried about. We can simply say that new information leads us to conclude that Charlie was near home in the early morning hours of the day he disappeared.”
“Thank you,” Michael said as he stood up to shake the detective’s hand and carry on with a series of extravagant apologies.
I slipped from the room, nobody noticing but the dogs who trailed behind me, going from the living room to the hallway to the kitchen and out the door onto the porch. Tripping down the stairs, four basset hounds bounding after me, I ran down the winding path that led around and past the irregular lows and highs of the dunes, waves crashing, wind gusting, summer grasses blown sideways. I ran past the police officers, who barely looked up as they searched the area for signs of Charlie.
I was out of breath by the time I reached Harry. He was standing alone at the edge of the tallest dune, a towering cliff of white-and-rawhide-colored sand. The dogs circled him, barking happily, tails wagging, as he bent down to pet them.
He stood back up and stared out over the ocean, taking in that terrifying view.
“Unbelievable,” he said.
I
RETURNED TO THE HOUSE
alone an hour later and overheard some police officers in conversation. Walking toward their cars, idling in deflection by the rose garden, unaware of my presence, they seemed to be trying to postpone their return to the real world.
“God forbid Devlin should be publicly embarrassed,” one of the detectives was saying. “Anything else that we should cover up for him while we’re at it? Weeks of investigatory work undermined and we’re just supposed to defer to the right of kings to do as they please. If he’s lying about this, what the hell else is he lying about? For God’s sake . . .”
“Please. He’s probably got God on his payroll,” the woman detective whispered, the two of them suppressing chuckles.
Laughing? Was it possible? They were laughing?
“How did I sound? Was I okay? Jesus, Greer Foley looks just like she does on the big screen. Camperdown’s an intimidating guy—a little daunting, you know? To say nothing of Devlin, the playboy of the Western world.” A younger cop spoke to an older cop as they filed out of the house behind the two detectives.
“You were fine. Anyway, between you, me and the lamppost, when all is said and done, I figure this kid got pissed out of his mind, decided to go for a swim and either drowned or got eaten. It’s a bad year for sharks. He got taken for a seal. End of story.” He was just getting wound up, using Charlie’s disappearance as an excuse to pontificate. “These kids today, I’m telling you, they haven’t got a clue. You know, I was reading this article the other day and it claimed that in a survey of high school kids, ninety-five percent of them couldn’t identify a photo of Spiro Agnew but they had no trouble recognizing the Cowsills, for Christ’s sake. Ask some of these little bastards what happened at Galilee and they look at you as if you just shit on their sneakers, meanwhile, they can all tell you where they were when Brian Jones died.”
I had just come back from a riding lesson when I got the news that Brian Jones had drowned.
“Devlin really went after the candidate, huh?” the younger cop said. “Pretty outlandish.”
“Something’s going on between those two, that’s for sure. You can practically taste it. Wonder how the wife fits into all this? She and Devlin seemed close, if you get my drift.”
“What about the kid? The girl? The one with the weird name. Waddle? She’s cute, kind of serious, seems out of place among that crew. Sort of like a mascot.”
I crept back into the house, tentative and disoriented. Lou was busy cleaning up. Michael Devlin was gone. Two policemen drove with him to his house, fearing for his state of mind. My father stood in the entranceway in animated discussion with the lead detective. “Surviving a bombing is not a measure of character or courage,” he was explaining. “Believe me, it’s just a matter of dumb luck and geography.”
The detective was nodding and listening intently, obviously fascinated.
“Mr. Camperdown, given what’s happened, we’ll leave a couple of black-and-whites here round the clock for the next few days for the protection of you and your family.”
Camp shook his head vigorously. He detested personal security, viewed it with utter contempt, as if it were a scathing review of the state of his manhood; he treated security protocols as if he were a ten-year-old squirming under the constraint of tie and Sunday-best outfit.
“No, thanks. I appreciate your concern, but we’ll be just fine.” He patted the detective on the shoulder. “Bring your father around for a drink. I’d enjoy meeting him. Sounds like we’ve got a lot in common.”
The detective nodded, smiling broadly as he shook Camp’s hand and promised to come back soon with his father for a visit.
The door had hardly closed behind them when my mother spun around and confronted my father. “My God, Camp, I thought he’d never leave.”
“Ah, but he left happy and that’s the important thing,” my father said, eyes twinkling. “Your father knows how to work it all right, Jimmy,” Camp said, as my mother groaned impatiently.
“No big secret,” she said. “First rule of thumb: avoid meaningful conversation at all costs.”
“Listen to your mother,” Camp said, grinning, walking toward the living room. “She knows whereof she speaks.”
“I thought the detective was kind of nice,” I said, though I suspected I was talking to myself.
“Well, that was interesting,” my mother said, cheeks flushing, eyes flashing in excitement as she trotted next to Camp. With a glance in my direction, my father lightly furrowed his brow, then allowed himself the tiniest smile. The two of them shook their heads, sighing loudly, taut shoulders giving way in relief.
“Look, it’s awful about the boy,” my mother said, tucking her legs beneath her on the sofa, beginning with the obligatory solemn preface.
“Yes,” my father said, sitting across from her, getting the preliminary niceties out of the way.
“But . . .” she said, her tone picking up.
“But,” my father interrupted, “I’m starting to think Devlin’s totally lost it. I can’t figure out whether he’s insane or it’s an issue of character, or both.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Well, as you know, Michael is publishing a book about his war experiences,” my mother explained. “He keeps intimating that he intends to embarrass your father with certain information that could, if it became public knowledge, threaten his political career.”
“I know all that. What information?” I asked.
“Crazy stuff,” my father said, his voice thick with resentment. “The guy has gone right off his rocker. I know the truth about what happened overseas and he resents the hell out of it. This thing has been brewing for years. I should have handled it differently from the start, but I never expected him to go completely nuts.”
“It’s a complicated story, Riddle,” my mother said.
“No, it’s simple as hell. He’s lying and I’m telling the truth.”
My mother’s unusual silence said more than words ever could.
“You like Michael, it’s so obvious,” I said in mildly accusatory fashion.
“I like him. So what? I feel sorry for him . . . and I’ve been known to enjoy his company. Despite what your father says, he has some attractive characteristics.”
“Greer, I don’t need to listen to your bullshit about Devlin right now,” Camp said. “For Christ’s sake, he practically accused me of murdering his son! He’s threatening to destroy me with his lies and I’m sick of feeling as if I need to defend myself to you. You still act as if this is some sort of he-said-he-said situation, my word against his. We’re not back in high school competing for your attention. For the last time, Devlin is lying. I foolishly agreed to protect him years ago and the decision has come back to haunt me. Even my own wife suspects me. How do I stand a chance with anyone else?”
“I believe you, Camp,” I said.
“Thanks, Jimmy, I can always count on you,” Camp said. “It’s never good to be the guy on the defensive.”
Despite his aggressive stance, and willingness to trade punches with an opponent at a minute’s notice, Camp seemed oddly agitated, which had me a bit confused.
“One thing for sure, his moral hypocrisy is alive and well and in excellent working order. Can you believe what he did to that kid of his?” Camp said, directing his remarks to my mother.
“Have a little compassion,” my mother said. “He’s paying a terrible price.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” Camp said. He looked over at me. “Always remember, you can call me any time, day or night, and I will never ever turn you away.”
“I know,” I said before adding, “I can’t help it, Camp. I feel a little bad for him, too. He did something wrong but he’s so sorry for it. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“No, it doesn’t,” my father said. “Save the contrition for the confessional. Regret isn’t worth a damn to anyone.”
“Is he accusing you of doing something bad?” I persisted, trying to get to the heart of the matter. I was frustrated by all that was going unsaid.
“Listen, Riddle, I don’t want to get into it for many reasons. Let’s just say, the only one who did anything wrong is Michael Devlin.”
“Come on, tell me,” I said, exasperated.
“Hey. You. Know your place,” Camp commanded. “You’re thirteen years old. You’re not entitled to know anything more than I choose to tell you.”
Greer, who had made a quick trip to the bar, was delivering a mixed drink to Camp. She held up her own drink and, bowing slightly in my direction, toasted the air.
“To young Harry Devlin,” she said. “Beacon of truth and fine young manhood. Surely you have no problem toasting all that you purport to admire even when it comes wrapped in Devlin packaging?”
My father held up his glass in grudging concession. “The devil his due. Harry Devlin,” he said.
He took a drink and ran his finger around the circular edge of the glass.
“About Harry,” he said to me.
“What about him?” I asked defensively.
“You’re much younger than him, Jimmy. I realize that intellectually you’re light-years ahead of most of your peers, but . . .”
“But it’s not your intellect that your father is concerned about,” my mother interrupted.
“Harry’s not like that,” I said. It was true, Harry wasn’t like that; from his nineteen-year-old vantage point, I was not an exploitable resource. Regrettably.
My expression betrayed my thoughts, to my mother at least, whose radar was permanently attuned to unstated wicked intentions.
“It’s not Harry that I’m worried about,” she said. “Amor tussisque non celatur.”
“For crying out loud, Greer.” Camp smiled over at me in conciliation. “Don’t worry. Gandhi himself couldn’t stand up under your mother’s withering judgments.” Responding to her derisive laughter, he sat back in his chair, shoulders square, and pointed at her with his forefinger. “By the way, Foley, don’t be so goddamn pretentious. You’re in deep trouble when you start recruiting the support of foreign languages to make a point.”
“Big heavyweight fight tonight, Camp,” I said, looking for ways to sustain the room’s shifting momentum.
“Oh, Jesus, I almost forgot. You and me at ringside, right?”
I nodded eagerly. For that moment I allowed myself to believe that everything was fine. Sitting back in my chair, I wrapped myself up in the comfort of the moment and watched my father as he scratched little Vera’s ears. Dorothy shook her head, her collar clinking in concert with the ice cubes in my father’s drink, a dissonant metallic note.
Camp was keeping this damnable secret, just as I was holding fast to mine—buried in a grave so shallow I could unearth its partially decomposed remains with my fingernails. That night as I went up to my room, I heard “Prisoner of Love” playing softly from behind their closed bedroom door. I knew the lyrics intimately from hearing them so often.
Greer loved that song. She listened to it all the time. My father used to kid her about having an unrequited love. She was uncompromising in her preference for the Perry Como version. But that night it was Billy Eckstine I heard, the rendition my father favored.
My mother laughed as the music played on, looping continuously; did she never grow tired of that song? My parents were deep in animated discussion, their voices low and intense. I leaned my forehead against the door and willed them to let me in. My hand was poised to knock, but I didn’t rap on their door that night.
It was late. Whatever we had to say to one another could wait. Anyway, I really didn’t want to know. I already knew far too much. Let them keep their little secrets as I kept mine, for the moment anyway.
My mother said it. Amor tussisque non celatur.
Love and a cough are not concealed.
T
HE NEXT DAY, MY MOTHER AND I WENT FOR A RIDE TOGETHER.
Pure duty call—the horses needed exercising. We rode along in silence for most of the way, me aboard Mary, my mother riding her favorite mount, Joe Hill. Our horses walked in tandem along the path leading through the woods and down toward a small stream located in the middle of Gin’s property. Dismounting by the water’s edge, we sat across from each other on the stony incline, the fast-moving amber water flowing alongside.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Riddle,” my mother said, pulling off her riding gloves and folding them, one neatly on top of the other. She rested them on her thigh, continuing to stroke their worn leather surface.
“I don’t have anything to say,” I said, staring moodily off into the horizon. My mother cleared her throat and tried again.
“Don’t be so difficult. As if I haven’t had enough to contend with in the last little while. You think you’ve had a bad week? Are you kidding me? You’re a child. What the devil do you have to worry about? How would you like to be me? Finding Charlie Devlin’s jacket and on our beachfront, of all places. Hearing Michael’s dreadful confession about the night he disappeared.” She paused, considering. “I don’t think that boy was taken. Why wouldn’t there be a ransom demand if that were the case? I’m more inclined to suspect misadventure, given the circumstances. I got the impression the police think so, too.”
“Well, what do they know? What does anyone know? The police thought they had all the facts from Michael and that wasn’t true at all. Who knows what’s true about anything?”
“Welcome to the world, Riddle,” my mother said, coolly appraising my pulsing contrariness relative to her notoriously unreliable tolerance. “At least your father’s polling well,” she said, trying a fresh approach as I nodded with a simmering blend of listlessness and hostility.
“I guess.” I was picking at a loose strip of bark.
“What do you mean, you guess? Even to someone as disagreeable as you, it must be obvious that your father is taking everyone by storm.”
“ ‘Taking everyone by storm?’ Since when are you the queen of clichés? You’ve been hanging around Gin too long.”
Her head snapped back. I’d hit pay dirt with that one.
“Anyway, that’s such an exaggeration,” I said, churlish stew of emotions erupting into a boil. “I hate it when you do that—make things sound like more than what they are. You don’t care about ordinary things. All you care about is money. Power. Fame.”
“That’s a charming way to speak to your mother. I’d think you’d be happy that I’m so supportive and proud of your father’s accomplishments.” She reached up to stroke Joe’s muzzle.
“Please, spare me. You are such a phony.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m not interested in your insults, Riddle. Maybe you should keep a diary, then you could rant and rave about me to your heart’s content. You’d be guaranteed one avid reader.”
I could feel my entire body clench. “I really can’t stand you, you know that? You never listen to me. Do you ever listen to anyone? I think you like intimidating people, making them feel like second-class citizens.”
Seconds away from crying, I struggled to regain my composure. How I hated being a girl! How did my mother manage to keep her cool the way she did?
“I was embarrassed for you, for our whole family, the way you treated the police.” I wiped my nose with my hand. I was cracking. “What makes you think you’re so perfect anyway? I’ve got news for you, Greer, you think you’re the only one with opinions—well, other people have opinions, too. They’re just too polite to speak up. Those detectives were disgusted.”
I choked back a sob.
“Oh, well, then, stop the world I want to get off.” Her dispassion was infuriating.
“That’s what I mean.” The dam broke. “There you go. Charlie Devlin has disappeared from the face of the earth and all you care about is how our lives are affected.”
Greer rolled her eyes.
“Don’t do that! Don’t roll your eyes at me! You act as if it’s a good thing that’s happened.”
“Pardon me if I’m grateful for the opportunity to be able to live and breathe another day. It’s terrible what’s happened to Michael and his family. I wish it were otherwise, but I’m not so foolish as to wish away the fact that it means he has bigger fish to fry than the Camperdown family. I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“We aren’t the only people that matter,” I yelled at her.
“Of course we are,” she said, looking at me as I wept.
“What’s wrong with you? You just don’t get it.”
“Get what? All of this?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “The shared properties, the ocean view, the horses, oh and let’s not forget about Harry. You don’t meet a boy like Harry at the local Laundromat, you know. Where do you think all of this comes from? You think it falls from the sky like manna from heaven?”
“Stop making fun of me!” She was making me crazy. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t have a crush on Harry?” I picked up a rock and threw it into the stream, where it made a big splash and sank to the marshy bottom.
Greer laughed out loud.
“Where is all this coming from? Take this stuff up with your father, not me. He’s the one with the axe to grind. You’ve hardly said a word to me since our visit to Truro, and now this.”
“You want to know? You really want to know? I saw you! I saw you with him. I saw you with Michael Devlin,” I said, rising to my feet, startling the horses with my vehemence.
“Saw us? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“In the stable. I saw you. Don’t lie. Don’t deny it. I’m so sick of all the lies.”
She flushed in rosy discomfiture, a pinkish hue dotting the surface of her white skin, but quickly reinstated her characteristic cool. In the face of nearly any challenge, my mother turned into a tranquil monument to self-possession. Meanwhile, I was doing my best impersonation of the sun’s core, all those volatile combinations of particles slamming together.
“I don’t know what you think you saw. And aren’t you the little sneak, by the way.”
“Don’t even . . . don’t you dare turn this around on me. You’ve got the nerve to talk to me about Harry. When we’re just friends.” I wiped my eyes. I felt as if I’d been crying for weeks on end, which I had.
“Not if you have anything to say about it,” she said, as I huffed and puffed with indignation. “Don’t worry, darling, your not-so-secret is safe with me. Believe it or not, I understand.” She scuffed the ground with her boot and ran her fingers through her hair.
She looked out across the fields. “Life is so strange. When you’re young and your blood is racing you crave these romantic connections with all your heart—you think you will die of love for him—and the whole disapproving world stands in your way, tsk-tsking and deploring your every thought and desire. When you’re older and you no longer give a damn about love or sex, the world is your oyster. What does it matter then?”
“I don’t want to talk about this with you.”
I smoldered away as she took the time to retrieve a cigarette from her cigarette case, tap it, light it, inhale and exhale before responding. Her reflective moment had passed.
“We were flirting. So what?” She blew a perfectly formed circle of smoke into my face.
“So you admit it?”
“Admit what? All right, I confess to being married, not dead. I admit engaging in a few moments of lightly infused banter with a man I’ve known my entire life. Perhaps you would prefer that I don a gingham housedress and talk to chickens about the price of eggs.”
“I hate you.”
“Grow up, Riddle. This Pippi Longstocking routine of yours is getting old.”
“Poor Camp.”
“Poor Camp? Ha!” She started to laugh. “Now that really is funny.”
She stood up and, brushing off her riding breeches, reached for Joe’s reins and gathered them up in her gloved fist. Hooking her foot in the stirrup, she hoisted herself aboard.
I reached for the bridle and looped my fingers tightly around the leather strap.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re so clever, little girl, you figure it out. You’ve got all the answers.”
“Are you trying to make me believe that Camp knows about whatever it is that’s going on between you and Michael Devlin?”
“Knows about it?” She tapped my fingers with her riding crop. “Darling, it was all his idea.”
I released my grip, my fingers lightly stinging, and she pressed Joe into a canter, setting out alone across the open field, hair blowing in long, silky, yellow streamers—no riding helmet for Greer Foley. I watched her disappear down the winding path surrounded on all sides by dense forest, the trees seeming to part to let her pass, the birds taking to the sky, crying out, their calls reverberating in warning echo along the way.
I
URGED MARY ALONG, THROUGH
long stretches of pasture and daunting tracts of woodland with endless secret coverts and thick pockets of scrub and swamp. Cross-country riding at the Cormorant Clock Farm demanded an experienced rider. Even so, there were elements of risk. Horses are naturally skittish and there was a lot to startle one on the way. Riding to where the land was most hilly and ruggedly endowed with dense tree growth, I cantered over the rise, jumping over any obstacles in our path.
As the day got lighter and grew warmer with the progress of the afternoon sun, Mary and I meandered along the overgrown trails, me leaning forward in the saddle, my chest against her neck, my face against her mane, dodging the low-hanging branches that burdened the narrow path. I looked out over an unbroken line of trees and longed for my world to give up its secrets. So many disturbing questions, answers as elusive as something lost in the woods, a hidden presence wanting to be found. Sitting on my horse, still and silent, watching as each revelatory breath rose up over the trees like a trail of smoke fixing location, listening as each beat of the unseen heart gave itself away.
Sliding down onto the wet ground, I led Mary along the convoluted trail to the center of the forested area. I had been there many times before, to where the trees finally open up into a windy marsh and beyond it a large kettle pond, a wilderness sanctuary for ducks and birds.
I walked toward the water and let Mary enjoy a quick taste. Her ears flicked forward and, stamping her foot, she raised her head, stretching her neck in the direction of the deep pond concealed just beyond, behind overgrown vegetation and chest-high grasses. She whinnied in alert recognition. The reins jerked in my hand. I read her message immediately—another horse.
Lashing the reins to a tree branch, I ran past the swampy area and, rounding the corner, was surprised to see Boomslang grazing in the tiny clearing. Something in the water caught my eye. Squinting, I could see the outline of Gin’s old wooden canoe and someone stretched out on its floor, head and shoulders propped up against the seat, eyes closed, the sun shining its spotlight on him.
“Harry,” I called his name.
He lifted his head, hand at his brow. “Hoffa!” he shouted. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I countered unimaginatively. I pulled off my helmet and reflexively combed my hair with my fingers, confident my wit wasn’t the only thing that was sagging.
The pond wasn’t big, but it was deep. He wasn’t going anywhere in the boat. There was nowhere to go. He was just aimlessly floating.
“Hey! Wait there. I’ll paddle over and ride back to the house with you.”
He pulled himself up onto the seat and began to row toward me. I met him at the water’s edge. “Are you following me? This obsession of yours is getting out of hand.”
“Very funny. I was just doing a little cross-country stuff with Mary.”
We decided to ride back together. Aboard our horses, we walked along in silence, side by side along the wide forest path. Harry was the first to breach the void.
“Okay. What’s on your mind? Whatever it is, just say it,” Harry said.
“I was thinking about what happened the other day at my house.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Aren’t you curious about what made our fathers go from being best friends to bitter enemies?”
“That’s what’s on your mind?” He reined in Boomslang and stared at me.
“Harry?”
“You gotta be kidding me. It’s ancient history, whatever it is. Who cares? Frankly, I’m not too impressed with either one of them right at the moment. They stand around trading insults and meanwhile, what about Charlie? Charlie vanishes into thin air and all they can think about is one-upping each other. I couldn’t care less about their goddamn war.”
“How can you say that?”
“You know what concerns me about the other day? Where the hell is my brother?”
A few moments passed before we spoke again.
“Harry, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Charlie and I used to sometimes ride our bikes to the back of Gin’s property and sneak out here when we were younger. My dad told us about the pond and how he used to go fishing when he was a kid. Did you know the canoe belonged to my grandfather?”
Faltering, I just shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.