Noses Are Red (11 page)

Trixie puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my! Must watch that temper of ours. Doctor, should Zinta be here? We wouldn’t want her losing control and hurting these two little boys.”

The doctor is still on the phone. “I’ll be right down to the heliport,” he says. “Try the hospital in Peterborough.” He hurries out of the cabin.

Zinta isn’t talking, but her look is so full of menace, so frightening that I want to pull the covers up over my head. And she’s not even looking at me.

Trixie’s expression is pretty frightening too. Bully frightening. She’s a mean one. “It’s going to be a pleasure to get that scroll away from you tomorrow,” she says.

“You think you will win?” Zinta clenches her hands into fists. Veins stand out in high relief on her bicep and tricep muscles. “We’re going to take you. I know it.”

“You’re bluffing, Zinta. Remember last year’s game? I can always tell when you’re bluffing. Oh, and speaking of games, I get what’s-his-name tomorrow. Him.” She points.

“Victor?”

“Yes, Victor is a Trailblazer. He’s going to replace Billy from the Weasel cabin. If you want, you can have this weird guy here.”

That would be me.

Trixie stares at me. “Not enough arms,” she says, shaking her head. I don’t say anything. Trixie spins on her heel and walks out the door.

“I hate that girl,” says Zinta.

“It’ll be dinner soon,” says Zinta. “Boomer sent me to ask if you and Victor could eat with us in the dining hall.”

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”

“Do you think Dr. Callous would let you? I heard something about hypothermia.”

“I’m fine!” I say. “No one seems to believe me, but I’m fine. I can even play in these games of yours.”

“The games. The games.” She starts to pace back and forth. “Trust Trixie to get here first,” she mutters. “At least Victor is a camper. What can
you
do?” She whirls around. “Sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“That’s okay. I’ve … um … been thinking about how I can help you. And I’ve come up with a way.”

“How?”

A bell rings somewhere in the distance. A warning? A symbol? We’ll see. “I’ll beat Trixie at poker for you,” I say.

She stops pacing. Her eyebrows go up. “How can you do that? I know you beat me last night, in the tent, but that was luck, right? Poker’s all luck, isn’t it?”

“Do you know what I’m thinking?” I say.

She shakes her head.

“Well, a lot of poker is knowing what the other guy is thinking. And, for some reason, I seem to be good at that. I’m no good at tying knots and carrying canoes and starting fires. But I can tell what you’re thinking right now.”

“You can?”

I stare into her eyes and nod solemnly.

It takes a moment for her to accept this. I don’t change my expression.

She nods a couple of times. “Gee, Alan! That’s great!” She smiles.

I let myself relax, return her smile.

“Hey, you’re good,” she says. “Maybe you
can
help us.”

–
He’s bluffing.

“Quiet, Norbert.”

–
He has no idea what you’re thinking.

Now Zinta’s face clouds over. “What? What did you say, Alan?”

“Nothing.”

“Were you bluffing, just now? Do you know what I’m thinking?”

The bell keeps tolling, loud and deep. Victor stirs and wakes up.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask him.

“Hungry.” He rubs his stomach. He’s missing a few potato chips since yesterday.

“Good timing,” Zinta tells him. “That’s the summoning bell. Dinner is in fifteen minutes.”

Camp Omega (OUTDOOR EXPERIENCE SINCE 1910! says the sign outside the infirmary) is laid out on rocks and under trees. Zinta takes us on a quick tour before dinner. There are paths everywhere, lined with woodchips. We pass cabins with animal names: Chipmunk, Raven, Weasel. Each one seems to have a droopy clothesline strung between trees, with soggy towels and bathing suits hanging down. The Weasel cabin is hung with a banner saying TRAILBLAZERS.

“That’s your team, Victor,” I tell him. “You’re a Trailblazer.”

“Huh?”

“Camp games day is tomorrow. You’re on Trixie’s team.”

“Who’s Trixie?”

“You’ll find out.”

We pass a cabin with a LUMBERJACK banner. “I’m a Lumberjack,” I say.

“And I’m a Trailblazer? Okay, I get it. My camp had a games day too: Iroquois and Blackfoot. I was a Blackfoot. My cabin won the Red Rover competition.”

Zinta nudges me. “How did you do in Red Rover, Alan?” she whispers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever played Red Rover,” I say.

Zinta looks grave.

“Hey, Zinta!” calls a little kid with a LUMBERJACK T-shirt. “We’re going to get ’em tomorrow!”

“You better believe it, Rocky!” she says.

A couple of other little kids are coming down another path. “Lumberjacks – hah!” they shout. “Trailblazers! Trailblazers!”

Zinta smiles.

We pass the infirmary again on our way to the top of a hill, and come to a building with different animals carved in wood outside it. Kids and grown-ups are lining up to go in. “Dining hall,” says Zinta. “It’ll turn into a casino tomorrow night.”

She gives me a meaningful glance. I give her the thumbs-up.

It’s getting chilly, as the sun sinks towards the hills. I wish I had a change of clothes.

“Well, hello there! Glad to see you on your feet!” It’s Boomer, jiggling like a pudding. Her CAMP DIRECTOR button flashes in the sunlight. She shakes hands with Victor and then, after a pause, with me. Zinta disappears.

“No time to stop,” says Boomer, striding off. “Another helicopter just came in. Find yourselves places to sit in the hall,” she calls over her shoulder.

Victor and I stare at each other. Shrug.

“I can smell something cooking,” I say. “What is it?”

His nose is better than mine – sorry, Norbert, I didn’t mean that. His sense of smell is better.

“Salisbury steak,” he says. “With barbecue sauce!”

We join the line of kids on their way to dinner.

The dining hall is a long thin rectangle. Tables set down a long center aisle. Over each table, hanging from the ceiling, is a large and lifelike wooden sculpture of an animal. Each cabin sits at its own table.

It’s a busy, noisy place. Benches clatter. Shouts echo off the cement floor. People move quickly to their places.

I cannot help but notice that there is a division among the animals. Looking down the right-hand side, from where I stand, are a dove, a beaver, a chipmunk, and an owl. Wise and hardworking animals, portrayed in white or cream colored woods. Their feathers and fur are all in place, neat and groomed. They appear to be smiling. The forces of light.

Down the left-hand side, the animals are carved out of darker wood. They’re not carved as well, either. There are scratches and cuts, and some of the animals have a decidedly scruffy appearance. And they’re different animals too: foxes, ravens, weasels, and snakes. These
animals frown, glower, sneer. The wood is older, and, in the case of the snake, stained and blotched. This is the dark side.

Victor and I stand at the front of the hall. We don’t have a place to go. Everyone stares at us. I feel their eyes. They’re checking us out, commenting. Do we pass? I’m very aware of my sunburnt nose.

Christopher and his nurse sit at the head table, with the other grown-ups. She has her hand on his arm. He smiles past her, searching the room. I look away before he gets to me.

“Who’s that?” Victor is staring at the Snake table. “That girl with the blonde hair is staring at me.”

“That’s Trixie,” I mutter.

“She’s still looking. Do you think she wants me to sit with her? Me?” He points to himself. Trixie nods, and beckons.

“Wow!” he says.

Oh, Victor. Oh, my friend. “Be careful,” I caution, but it’s too late. He’s gone.

The atmosphere is boisterous, but also orderly and attentive. The dining hall is obviously an important place in the life of the camp. A meeting place, a place of order, ritual, duty, veneration. In its way, a holy place. I don’t belong. I’m reminded of Dougal, who joined our grade four class in midterm. His mom was doing a teaching exchange of some kind. Dougal was our age, and size, but he wore short pants and striped socks, and spoke with a broad Scottish accent. And he couldn’t skate – something
as natural as breathing to us. As far as we were concerned, he might have been a different species. He went home at the end of the year, but we still talk about him. The strange Scottish kid.

Oh, no. I am Dougal. I wonder if they’ll talk about me in three years.

“Over here, Alan,” calls Zinta. At last! Someone wants me. I walk over. Needless to say, Zinta’s table is on the other side of the hall from Trixie’s. The light side. She’s under the sculpture of the owl. It’s all girls at the Owl table. “Sit with the Beavers,” Zinta tells me, pointing at the table next to her.

I find a spot on the Beaver bench. “Hi, there,” I say. No one replies. Maybe if I try an accent. “
Wheesht
, lads, but it’s a braw nicht the nicht!” Dougal, wherever you are, I apologize for the way I treated you in fourth grade.

Boomer strides in at this point and squats in front of an amplifier, fiddling with a wire. From the back she looks enormous: a new continent or something. I feel like I should plant a flag in her and claim her for Canada.

You know, that’s a pretty funny idea. I want to share it with someone. I turn to the guy beside me, but he’s looking solemn right now. So’s everyone else around the table. Come to think of it, the whole dining hall is quiet and respectful.

Boomer is on her feet. “Campers and guests!” She doesn’t need her microphone. Her voice bounces all over the big room. “Let us say our grace!”

We all rise together, Lumberjack and Trailblazer, light and dark, good and evil. We bow our heads as Boomer recites a prayer:

That’s all. You know, I don’t think it’s funny. In fact, it sounds pretty good. I say amen, with everyone else.

The kid next to me is staring. “Your nose must hurt, Alan,” he says, with his mouth full. He’s a tough kid, like a length of rawhide. Looks like he can tie himself in knots. Mike? Is that his name? Mark, maybe? Something like that. Zinta introduced me around the two tables, but I can’t remember any of the names.

“I beg your pardon?” I say.

“It’s all red. Your cheeks and forehead too, but your nose is really red. You got a bad sunburn.” The kid talks around a plug of food in his cheek. Without swallowing, he takes a bite of Salisbury steak and keeps chewing. His jaw muscles bulge. He adds a forkful of mashed potatoes to the bite and keeps chewing. Then a bite of canned carrots
and peas. Then another bite of steak. He’s a conveyor belt, never stopping. He grabs the plate of bread, takes a piece, and offers the plate to me. “Bread, Alan?”

“No, um …,” I say.
Um.
Good name for him.

“I’ll take a piece of bread. Thanks, Peter,” says the redhead on the other side of me. Drat! I thought
he
was Peter. Maybe he’s Mike. Or Mark.

Peter, the skinny tough kid, takes a slice and slathers some margarine on it. Peter. Peter. The counselor at the Beaver table is the one with the bangs and the sharp jutting chin – I met her this morning at the campsite. Her name is Belinda. I think. The two boys across from me are Derek and Eric. One of them is dark skinned, and one light skinned, but I forget which is which. They’re both wearing striped shirts.

Oh, the heck with it. Maybe they’ll all go on being
Um
to me.

Is my nose red? I reach up and feel my nose furtively. A bit warm, I suppose.

–
HEY!
shouts Norbert.

The table stops to stare at me. Peter has his fork halfway to his mouth.

“It’s the sunburn talking,” I say.

“Hello, Omega campers!” booms Boomer.

No microphone. We’re outside, all of us, sitting on tree trunk benches around a roaring campfire. Twilight. Sun behind the hills. Crickets in the grass. It’s almost bedtime. This is the official kickoff for the games.

I’m with the rest of the Lumberjacks. We’re all fizzing with excitement, bubbling and buzzing and whispering. On the other side of the campfire, the Trailblazers grumble and mutter to each other.

“A couple of announcements,” booms Boomer. “Could I have Zinta Zeeler here please.”

Cheers from our side of the fire. Hoots and whistles from the other side.

Blushing all the way down to her neckline, Zinta drags her feet up beside the camp director. Boomer grabs her by the elbow, turns her around to face the crowd.

“You all know Zinta. She’s been a camper here for years. She’s the captain of the Lumberjack team. Yesterday, Zinta passed some really tough canoeing tests, including running the Bearclaw Rapids on the other side of Alpha Lake. (Cheers from all around the fire.) Then she stayed overnight without supervision, clearing her campsite, pitching her tent and lighting her fire, catching her dinner, and staying dry despite a tremendous storm! (Cheers!) Zinta, it is my very great pleasure to present you with this Master Tripper Scroll.” (Extra loud cheers!)

I expect the scroll to be something mystical and ancient – the sort of thing Harry Potter would get if he went canoeing. It looks like a plain piece of paper, with string tied around the middle.

“And that’s not all,” Boomer goes on. “Yesterday, Zinta did something more important than winning the Master Tripper Scroll. Would Victor and Alan come up here, please?”

Victor is sitting beside Trixie. When he stands up, I happen to notice the expression on her face. Never have I seen such intense hatred coming from one person, and I include Big Mary, the nastiest of the bullies back at my school in Cobourg. Maybe it’s because Mary – fat as a banker’s wallet, mean as a dentist’s drill, strong as a steer roper – hates everyone, and Trixie hates one person. Very focused hatred.

Trixie hates Zinta. As much as Zinta hates her, she hates Zinta more.

Boomer explains about Zinta finding us wandering in the wilderness, and feeding and giving us shelter, and maybe saving our lives. She calls Christopher Leech’s name. He’s at the back of the crowd. He stands up and waves. Zinta blushes and looks away. We blush and look stupid. The campers cheer and whistle. “Hey, we helped too,” Victor whispers in my ear. “What about my safety pin?”

The nurse helps Christopher to sit down. He looks around the campfire as he’s smiling at the nurse, and I realize that I do not like him at all.

I think about all the hatred in the room right now – Trixie and Zinta, and me. And I can feel my Salisbury steak moving around in my stomach.

Boomer has a hand on my shoulder. Her fingers are the size of bananas. “For those of you who don’t know, Victor and Alan will be competing in the games tomorrow,” she announces. “Victor is an honorary Trailblazer, and Alan is an honorary Lumberjack. I understand that Victor has
some camping experience. Isn’t that right?” And she turns and smiles at Victor. It occurs to me that my friend
looks
like he’s had camping experience. It’s all the pockets in his clothes. Everything he’s wearing – shorts, of course, but shirt too, and hat, and underpants for all I know – has pockets. Camping seems to require a lot of things, and the prepared camper has places to put them.

Now Victor reaches deep into a side pocket and pulls out a yellow rag. He waves it over his head. There’s a murmur, and some whistling, from the assembled weasels and skunks and porcupines on their side of the campfire. I guess the yellow rag means something.

Boomer smiles and turns to me. “And Alan, here, is …” and then she stops. I am very aware of my unbuttoned shirt, oversized bathing shorts, and sunburnt face. “Well, we’re happy to have him anyway,” she says.

No cheers or whistles. I can hear the crickets very clearly. Ah, well.

Boomer waves the two of us back to our seats.

“Okay, campers. Let’s see if we can predict a winner of the games. Are you ready? Are you ready to cheer for your team?” We cheer.

“That’s it? That’s as loud as you can cheer?”

We cheer louder.

“Not bad,” says Boomer. “But I’ll bet you can do better. Watch carefully now, Lumberjacks!”

A new fire blazes into sudden life off to the side of the field. Two large pieces of wood have been put together to
make a capital letter L, and then set alight. The people around me start to cheer the burning
L. L
for Lumberjacks, I guess. I join in.

“Now it’s your turn, Trailblazers!” The other side of the campfire is silent until another outsized letter leaps into startling flame on the other side of the field. A letter
T.
The Trailblazers cheer. We keep cheering. The fiery letters burn.

“Are you ready for tomorrow, campers?” calls Boomer. “I want you to show me how ready you are. Lumberjacks, Trailblazers, PUT ON YOUR UNIFORMS!”

Huh? A confused squirming lasts only a few seconds, and then everyone is on their feet, wearing a new T-shirt. The Trailblazers’ shirts are yellow. The team name is written in black script across the front. The Lumberjacks around me are wearing – I have to check because it’s getting dark – green shirts, with white lettering.

Victor’s got a Trailblazer shirt. That was the yellow rag he was waving a minute ago.

I lean towards my neighbor. He’s still cheering the letter
L.
“Nice shirt, Mike,” I shout. “Do I get one too?”

“My name isn’t Mike,” he shouts.

“Mark?” I try, but he’s turned away. Ah, well.

Boomer’s voice booms even louder. “Get to bed everyone. Get lots of sleep. Tomorrow … LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”

We keep cheering as we leave the field and walk back to the cabins. The
T
goes out. The
L
teeters and falls. We keep cheering. I feel false, like I’m playing a part, but I
cheer along with everyone else. When I get back to the infirmary, there’s someone sleeping in my bed.

Not
in
my bed. On it, with a whole pile of comforters on top. There’s a bag of clear stuff hanging on a metal pole beside the bed, dripping into the patient. The room lights are low. Dr. Callous is bending over the patient, shining a flashlight into her eyes. She moans faintly. I know who it is, of course. Not from her voice, which is even raspier than the doctor’s, or her face, which is scrunched away from the light. Her glasses are gone, and the braid has come out of her hair, but I would recognize her feet anywhere. They stick up like a mountain range beneath the comforters. No one else in the world has feet like that.

“Hi, there … um, Doris,” I say.

She moans some more.

“Is she going to be all right?” asks Victor.

The doctor stands away from the bed. “I still can’t get much of a response,” he says. “You kids had better stay out of the way until the ambulance comes.”

Poor Doris. I feel terrible. It’s our fault she’s in this mess.

“I wish there was something we could do,” I say.

“She was out in her kayak all night,” says the doctor. “The rangers found her washed up at the far end of the lake.” He shakes his head. “Say, how do you boys know her?”

“We saw her in her kayak,” I say.

“We’ve been to her cabin,” says Victor.

–
The cabin with the brilliant painting on the wall
, says Norbert.
When I saw it, I was transplanted! Too bad Orion was a bit out of drawing.

Doris moves a little in the bed. She shakes her head. “Drawing,” she mutters. “Out of drawing!”

“What’s that?” The doctor moves quickly back to her side. “You seem to have woken her up. Hello, Miss Appel. Hello. It’s Dr. Callous. Hello. Can you hear me?”

–
He sounds like he’s talking on the telephone
, says Norbert.

“Is she going to be okay?” asks Victor.

–
Yes.

“How do you know, Alan?”

“I don’t.”

–
I do. She’ll be fine in a few days.

The doctor bends low to ask Doris some questions. She replies weakly. He shakes his head, and keeps talking.

“Why transplanted, Norbert?” I ask. “Don’t you mean you were transported?”

Mom uses that kind of word all the time. Last week she told me she was transported back to her youth on the wings of a radio song. The song was called “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” and midway through an extended drum solo, I was transported upstairs to watch TV.

–
Transplanted. As if I was back in my own garden. Jupiter never looked so blue. It made me homesick.

When the ambulance comes, Doris is sitting up in her bed. The doctor tells the ambulance guys to be careful, and to keep her warm. “She got caught in the storm
yesterday. Dropped her paddle in the middle of the lake, and couldn’t make it to shore.”

The ambulance guys strap her onto a flat movable bed.

“Hypothermia?” asks the one with the clipboard.

The doctor raises his eyebrows. “She
says
she’s fine.”

They shake their heads sadly. They know what that means.

Ten minutes later I’m in bed. “Wonder what happened to her cabin?” I murmur. Victor is snoring. Norbert doesn’t answer. I go to sleep.