The Last Summer of the Camperdowns (26 page)

My mother interjected. “For God’s sake, Michael, you should know by now, everyone hates the Devlins a little in their heart of hearts. Even the people that love you, hate you. People are jealous! Is this really such a surprise? I, of course, have good reason for disliking you. As for you, Riddle, what strange power does this Gula creature have over you? After all, he’s just some grubby immigrant. What can he do? Hurtle profanities at us in another language? No need for the world to stop rotating. Michael, you know as well as I do that you cannot give in to these types, otherwise they will own you, lock, stock and barrel.”

“I don’t know, Greer,” Michael said. “Maybe his feelings run deeper than jealousy, maybe he has a grudge against the family based on some old grievance with the company. God knows my grandfather and my father made enough enemies to keep me on my toes until the end of time.” He looked reflective.

“Anyway,” he brightened up a little. “It’s one thing to take defensive measures, it’s another to poke the snake with a stick.” He looked over at me gratefully. “Thanks, Riddle. I appreciate the warning. I’ll do everything in my power to keep Harry away from Gin’s—even if it means I have to tie him up and confine him to the cellar.”

“Good for you, Riddle. Looks as if you’ve earned yet another merit badge. Isn’t it past your bedtime, darling?” my mother said through gritted teeth. “In other words, time for you to take a powder.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a chaperone?” I asked her as Michael glanced downward, interested all of a sudden in inspecting the floorboards.

“You go too far, Riddle,” my mother said, unamused.

“Good night,” I said, heading up to my room, a queasy feeling overtaking me as I contemplated the dismaying notion that even this rich and powerful and famous man was no match for the wingless insect next door.

I
THOUGHT I WAS DREAMING.
“Hey, Hoffa,” Harry was whispering and nudging me, hand on my shoulder. “Wake up.”

I sat forward, gasping for air, jolted awake by an enormity of dread so ominous I thought I was being sealed in a narrow coffin and buried alive. Unreasonably panicking, I quickly looked around, grasping hold of Dorothy, trying to make sure I was still among the living.

“Jesus!” I lurched from under the bedcovers, almost tumbling onto the floor.

Harry laughed lightly. “Sorry,” he said, not meaning a word of it, relishing my shock. “The front door was open. There’s nobody downstairs. Christ, that was quite a response. Do you have a guilty conscience or what?”

“What are you doing here? Your dad said you weren’t feeling well.” I knew better than to suppose he was coming to see me, and I was right.

“I’m fine,” he said, exasperated. “I had to get out of that house. I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s like a mausoleum. I was out with some friends and on my way home I’m driving past your place and I see my father’s car in the driveway. What’s going on?”

“The door was unlocked?” I said, instinctively reaching for a sweater and pulling it over my head. I was at an acutely self-conscious stage of life, especially around Harry, and felt overexposed in anything less than a beekeeper’s uniform. “What time is it?”

“Two o’clock,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, Dorothy licking him all over his face. I suddenly became conscious of the jostling currents of synovial fluid in my knees and for a moment fantasized about the joys of being a basset hound.

“She’s quite a watchdog,” Harry joked.

“Where are they? My mom and your dad, I mean? They were talking in the living room when I went to bed around eleven.”

Harry grabbed my hand and yanked me out of bed. “Pull on a pair of pants and let’s go have a look around. I’m sure the answer to that question isn’t nearly as interesting as what you’re imagining.”

W
E WERE APPROACHING THE
utility shed on the ocean side of the property when we heard muffled voices and laughter. Shifting uncomfortably in reaction to the intimacy of the sound, I walked uncertainly toward the voices. Wordlessly we made the intuitive decision to conceal ourselves—Harry and I were at risk of becoming professional sneaks, with the amount of spying we had done of late—using the black of the night and the thick, razor-edged summer foliage that lined the winding path leading down to the beach. The voices grew louder—so loud I can hear them still. My mother. Michael. She poured him a glass of wine. He sipped it slowly. They were laughing and talking, watching each other intently, smoke rising above their heads.

“Jesus,” Harry whispered. “I’ve never seen my old man smoke.”

Michael got up and walked toward the edge of the water. He was staring out over the dark expanse of ocean. His arm fell to his side as my mother sidled up next to him and took the cigarette from between his fingers. She stood apart from him and finished his cigarette before tossing it into the waves, a tiny flare in the night sky destined to go almost unnoticed.

I looked at Harry. He looked back at me. “Seems harmless enough,” he said unconvincingly. I stared at him. “Okay,” he conceded, “so nobody here is being anointed with rose water. What are you gonna do?”

“Easy for you to say. What about my dad?”

Harry took me by the elbow. “Come on,” he said, leading me along the darkened, graduated path over several levels of dune that led to the house. “Listen, Hoffa,” he said as we walked along side by side, “things aren’t always what they seem to be. Don’t jump to any conclusions. I think they’re just messing around with each other. You know, flirting with the possibilities. Entertaining themselves. Nothing more. Your mother isn’t the type. In her own weird way she has scruples.” He paused, amused, considering. “I think.”

I stopped walking. “Really? Honestly, do you mean it?”

“Yeah, I do. You need to forget about it. Anyway, you know her better than I do. Why am I doing your job and sticking up for your mother?”

We were standing at the edge of one of the lower-level dunes, next to an old wooden bench and a couple of weather-beaten Adirondack chairs positioned to overlook the ocean. There was a large, black, wrought-iron lantern standing next to the bench like a sentinel. It cast a warm glow out over the water. I could hear the waves lapping against the sand on the beach below us.

Harry’s eyes, reflected in the silver light of the moon and the golden light of the lantern, stared back at me in the darkness.

“What the hell, Hoffa? Even if they’re up to something, it’s only sex.” He laughed, an easy, reassuring, boyish laugh. He was completely at ease—Harry was always relaxed—leaning gracefully against the wooden back of the bench, casually loitering.

Slightly taken aback, I pretended a sophistication I didn’t feel. “I wish I could be more like you.”

“You might as well enjoy yourself while you’re young and you have the chance. Before you wind up making a good match with somebody’s son that your parents manipulate you into marrying.”

“Who are you to talk about somebody’s son? You’re the ultimate somebody’s son.”

“Oh, interesting,” he said. “We have a reverse snob in our midst. I knew it.”

“You have a way of making me say things I don’t mean.”

“That’s a hot one. You mean exactly what you say.”

“No one cares anything about what I think,” I said, generously larding my comments with self-pity, my favorite condiment.

“Don’t tell me you sit up nights worrying about Greer’s indifference or Gin’s. Quit being so grave.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He surveyed me playfully. He poked me in the shoulder.

“So, do you have a boyfriend? Someone at school you like?”

“No. Why are you asking me such a stupid question?”

“Come on. There’s someone, isn’t there?” Harry was a born teaser.

“No.”

“Yes there is.”

I shook my head.

“Is he rich? Is he from a famous family? Is he everything you actively despise?”

I didn’t dare look at him. I caught my breath.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He laughed. “It’s me.”

I was trying to restart my heart when Harry, who hardly had a moment to enjoy the sweetness of his victory, grabbed me by the forearm, gripping it tightly.

“Quiet,” he said, finger to his lips. “What the hell is that?”

“What?” I said, gradually regaining the feeling in my body. “I don’t hear anything.” At that point I was so grateful for the interruption I would have welcomed the Zodiac Killer with air kisses.

He took me by the hand. “Come here,” he said, pulling me along behind him. “Listen.”

Closing my eyes, I was trying to hear what he heard.

“There it is,” he said. “Someone’s walking along the path. It’s coming from behind us.”

“Let’s go inside.”

“Come on,” Harry said as we reversed direction and, moving quickly, backtracked toward the beach. We came to a clearing just above the spot where my mother and Michael continued to talk and laugh and drink their wine.

I gasped as I realized that someone was about to emerge from the opposite side of the path, overhanging branches snapping, tall grasses rustling.

“Camp!” I said as my father came into clear view.

“What in God’s name?” my father said at first sight of Harry and me.

“Hoo boy,” Harry muttered.

The sound of my mother’s laughter drifted upward, curdling round us like the smoke from her cigarette. My father turned around to see them sitting together on the beach below us.

“Greer! Michael!” He shouted their names. “What is this? I go away for a day or two and come home to find a bacchanal in my own backyard?”

“Camp?” My mother got up and hands on her hips looked up at us. “Harry? Riddle? What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Camp hollered down at her as she and Michael abandoned their wine glasses and, shoes in hand, walked barefoot up to meet us.

“You better have a goddamn good explanation for what’s going on here,” Camp said as they approached. If his plan was to put my mother on the defensive he should have known better, both as her husband and as a seasoned combat soldier familiar with sussing out enemy strategy.

“What do you mean, explanation? How dare you? I don’t need to explain myself to you, or to anyone else for that matter. Michael and I were sharing a quiet conversation on the beach talking about old times. What is wrong with you?”

“Greer . . .” My father was digesting his mistake, reformulating his thoughts. I knew the routine—this could either get better or it could get a whole lot worse.

“I’m not finished. What I do, when I do it and with whom is none of your business, do you understand me? You owe Michael an apology. You owe me an apology. You owe the whole bloody world an apology!”

“Forget it,” Michael said. “It’s a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“No, it’s aggressive stupidity and I’m sick of it,” my mother said as I died a little. Please, Mom.

“Okay,” my father said, edge vaulting back into his voice, as he fought to maintain some control. “I may have overreacted, but it’s the middle of the damn night.”

“Come on, Harry, time to go,” Michael said, unaffected but resigned, as if he was in all-too-familiar territory. He stopped, something occurring to him. “What are you doing here?”

While Harry explained, I watched my father’s face for some indication of his intentions. He had grown progressively quiet and calm, and it was unnerving.

“Look, Camp, I’m sorry,” Michael said, suddenly turning to face my father as he and Harry made a movement to leave. “Given our differences, I probably didn’t show the best judgment coming here tonight. Don’t be angry with Greer. She didn’t know I was coming. I was trying to get to the bottom of this thing with Harry and the dog and I wanted to get her take on things. I can see why you might jump to the wrong conclusion.”

My father listened impassively, nodding his head. “You fascinate me, Michael.”

Michael stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s amazing. Your ability to frame everything in a way that either flatters you or exonerates you or makes you an object of pity, which ironically has the same effect of casting you in the best possible light. Deflection, revision, manipulation. I’ve got to hand it to you, Michael, you have truly found a way to make style seem like substance.”

“I can see that I’m wasting my time.”

“Camp, hasn’t Michael been through enough?” My mother chastised him as Harry groaned and shook his head.

“I don’t know. Ask him. He was so concerned with appearances that he didn’t even tell the truth to the police about his own son’s disappearance.” He began directing his remarks to Michael. “Then you use the natural sympathy of others—including my wife, or should I say our wife?—as a shield to protect your image of yourself as a man beyond reproach.”

Harry inhaled sharply. Michael stepped forward. He and Camp were facing each other. “You think I don’t know what I did? You think I wouldn’t change it if I could? I would do anything to bring Charlie home. Anything. How dare you question my love for my son?”

Michael’s voice quavered. Harry was struggling to keep his composure.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Camp said. “You deserve better. So did your brother. As for you, Michael, congratulations, I didn’t think it was possible but you’re giving your old man a run for his money in the son-of-a-bitch department.”

“Now you attack my dead father, too? Come on, Harry. Good luck, Greer. You’ll need it.” Michael started up along the trail toward the house.

“Oh, please,” Camp scoffed. “You and I both know that the only thing that stood between your father and a stint in a federal penitentiary was a plastic bag.”

My mother gasped. “Camp!”

Michael stopped and stared at her. “You told him, Greer. How could you? You swore . . .”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked his father, who seemed unable to find the words to respond.

“Let me enlighten you, Harry,” Camp said. “Your grandfather was about to be indicted for a long list of labor violations, long enough to ensure a substantial prison sentence, but he took the cowardly way out and killed himself instead. Your father and Greer found him in the living room on the sofa with a plastic bag over his head. How old were you, early twenties? Not much older than Harry is now?”