The Night of the Moonbow (3 page)

The string of six cabins making up “Harmony,” the intermediate or junior unit of Camp Friend-Indeed that stretched between “High Endeavor” (seniors) and “Virtue” (cadets), were spread out along the line-path leading to the council ring in the pine grove at the lakefront and the Teddy Roosevelt Memorial Nature Lodge, heart of the lower camp. Modest nine-bunk dwellings of brown-creosoted, tongue-and-groove siding set on blocks, identical in shape and size, each with its porch in front and clothesline beside or behind, the cabins had been built twenty years before to replace the original canvas tents, and had instead of solid walls sets of hinged side flaps that opened the entire structure up, bringing the outdoors inside. Each cabin had its name and number carved on a varnished pine plaque over the door: “Ezekiel - 6,” “Jeremiah - 7,” “Hosea - 8,” “Isaiah - 9,” and “Obadiah - 10,” and from the porch of each, through the red and brown tree trunks, could be seen the gleaming lake and waterfront, its boat dock and swim dock, the canoe racks, the diving float with its thirty-foot tower and board, and, out on the point, the cluster of High Endeavour cabins.

A dozen feet in back of Jeremiah, between the chrome-pipe faucet and wash rack that the cabin shared with Hosea and Ezekiel, stood “Old Faithful,” the geyser-like drinking fountain that was the social center of the Harmony unit, and farther along the path was the “Dewdrop Inn,” as the six-hole privy was called - another social hub.

Among the cabins, the late-afternoon sunshine filtered through the dark pine branches that formed a shady canopy overhead. Languorous, desultory talk and low, easy laughter emanated from the bunk racks in which campers reposed, at the lazy end of another summer’s day. The heat had died, the locusts had stilled their noise, the air was cool, with just a bit of breeze. Yet, the tranquil harmonies of the late afternoon were all but lost on the boys of Jeremiah, who were come together in a moment of ferocious ecclesiastical endeavour.

“ Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy Joshua Judges Ruth First Samuel Second Samuel First Kings Second Kings - um - Ezra ...”

“Chronicles, you forgot First Chronicles, Second Chronicles, then Ezra—” Monkey corrected.

“Shit, Chronicles,” Eddie said, socking his forehead in frustration.

“Yeah, shit,” echoed Peewee Oliphant.

“Aw, can it, twerp,” ordered Monkey. “Who said you were allowed to swear? You want your mouth washed out with soap?”

“Heh heh.” Young Peewee eyed Monkey warily from under the tan felt brim of the Tom Mix ten-gallon hat that was his preferred headgear. As the youngest boy at Friend-Indeed, Peewee Oliphant, age seven, was tolerated in Jeremiah cabin only by virtue of the fact that he was camp mascot. His father, in addition to being Friend-Indeed’s doctor, kept a summer cottage adjacent to the infirmary in Three Corner Cove, and since his romper days Peewee had been doggedly attempting to follow in the footsteps of the older boys.

Furrowing his brow in concentration, Eddie took it from the top again. Come Monday, he would have to stand up in Bible-studies class and recite the books of the Old Testament without a mistake, so for the past quarter of an hour Monkey Twitchell had been coaching him.

“Genesis Exodus Leviticus Numbers Deuteronomy Joshua Judges Ruth First Samuel Second Samuel First Kings Second Kings First Chronicles Second—”

“Ohhh mi-iiii Gaawd!”

This time it was the Bomber who interrupted the recitation, staring in lubricious disbelief at the copy of the King James Version of the Good Book open on his broad lap. “Listen to this, you guys, willya? This’ll whack you out! Sex - sex in the Bible!”

“Sex in the Bible?” Monkey repeated blankly. Such things were not possible, not even in this modern world of marvels.

To prove the truth of his dubious statement, the Bomber read for them the verses he had just stumbled across: Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins—

Wow! they exclaimed. Tits in the Bible!

“Wait, wait, that ain’t all!” He read more: This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs therof; now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine—/

“See what I’m tellin’ ya? This here’s the Bible and this guy’s woggin’ on this dame’s tits!”

Eddie, who had been lounging on his bunk, sat up, his eyes bugging with astonishment. “Boy, have we been missing somethin’! Who is this guy, anyways?”

“I think it’s Solomon.”

“Solomon?” Dump’s voice, changing this summer, climbed an octave. “For cripes’ sakes, if he’s supposed to be so wise why can’t he tell the difference between dates and grapes?” Baptized Donald Dixon Dillworth, Jr, Dump, who had the glasses and perpetually concerned expression of a serious scholar, bore his name heriocally. His studious side, however, did not keep him from regularly lining out home runs for Red Sox.

“Aw jeez, willya listen to the guy?” The Bomber chortled. “Grapes or dates - if it’s tits, what’s the diff? Tits, man, big friggin’ tits - and they’re in the Bible!”

This much was true, although Pa Starbuck would have perceived the Bomber’s interpretation of holy writ to be distressingly literal. Bomber Jackson had chanced upon the verses while leafing through the New Testament in search of Romans 5 (on mortal sin and atonement) - his assignment for the same Bible-studies class. If either he or Eddie should fail in his recitation on Monday morning he would earn demerits for Jermiah, a fact helping to account for the boys’ zealousness in their pursuit of ecclesiastical knowledge.

The talk now turned to a consideration of sex closer to home, however; to wit, the sundry eroticisms of Gus Klaus, occupant of Hosea cabin, next door.

“Gus was doin’ it again last night,” the Bomber observed with relish. He put aside his Bible, brought out his torch and began whittling on it, making ready for tonight’s council fire.

Of the five campers, only Peewee did not know what “it” was, but, anticipating ridicule, he forbore to ask, hoping to deduce the answer from the general discussion.

“How couldja tell?” inquired Eddie Fiske, dangling his legs over the edge of his bunk. Red-haired and freckled, with a mouth as wide as a slice of pie, Eddie had the sort of pale, liverish-looking skin that would peel all summer.

“I seen him. Seen his sillarett.” The Bomber pantomimed furious onanistic activity, to the hilarity of Monkey and Eddie. Dump, who was inclined toward prudishness, and didn’t care for the endless stream of sex-talk that flowed in and around every cabin in the camp, didn’t think it funny.

“Gus has sex on the brain,” declared Monkey. All bony ribs and hyperkinetic, Monkey Twitchell was well nicknamed: there was a simian quality to his small narrow face, large ears, and bright, swiveling eyes. And Monkey was right about Gus Klaus, who this year had arrives at camp with a sheaf of typewritten pages - the letterhead bore the legend “For Better Plumbing Kali Klaus” - containing the racier portions of James T. Farrell’s Studs Lonigan, assiduously copied out for Moonbow reading fare. “If he doesn’t watch out,” Monkey added, “he’s gonna get warts.”

“Or grow hair on the palm of his hand,” Eddie stated.

“Or go blind,” put in the Bomber authoritatively.

The older campers were repeating the Reverend Starbuck’s oft-stated predictions of the consequences of this particular pastime.

“Hey Bomber,” Peewee said. “How’s about givin’ us a look at Tits O’Shay?”

“Oh, come on, Peewee,” said Dump. “You’re too young for that stuff.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Then ask your father, don’t go looking at dirty pictures. ”

“Hell, Tits O’Shay ain’t dirty,” declared the Bomber. “She’s cute.”

Dump groaned a protest as the Bomber heaved himself up to retrieve the battered cardboard box he kept stored in his assigned space on the overhead shelf, and from it produced a small piece of polychromed cardboard, the end flap of a pound carton of Land O’Lakes butter showing the picture of a smiling Indian female kneeling and holding up before her chest a carton of Land O’Lakes butter on which was the picture of the identical smiling girl holding up another pound of butter, and so on, presumably, into infinity. In this instance, however, the portion above her hands where the carton rested had been cut out and the maiden’s bare knees were folded up into the excised rectangle, presenting the alluring picture of a smiling Indian maid holding in her hands two eye-filling breasts - the luscious Tits O’Shay. Monkey and Eddie were practically drooling, while Peewee stood bug-eyed on the bed behind them.

“Okay, you guys, that’s enough for one day.” As the Bomber slipped the card into the box and stretched to return it to its hiding place, he emitted a volley of rude noises.

“Pee-yoo, you farted!” Holding his nose and screwing up his face, Peewee pointed out the obvious.

“Bombs away!” Eddie shouted, and began chanting, “Beans, beans the musical fruit, the more you eat the more you toot.” Then they all took up the refrain, “The more you toot the better you feel, so eat your beans at every meal.”

“Aw, come on, you guys—”

Despite his brashness, the Bomber was easily embarrassed, but it was because of this singular talent that he had been nicknamed “Bomber” in the first place; or sometimes the Brown Bomber, a cognomen stemming from a certain resemblance to boxer Joe Louis, who only the year before had knocked out Jim Braddock to become heavyweight champion of the world. Joe, of course, was a darker shade, but the swarthiness of the Bomber’s complexion, as well as his chunky features, furrowed brow, and poll of kinky black hair, marked a distinct likeness.

Monkey and Eddie and Dump stopped their razzing, but Peewee, never knowing when to quit, continued to pinch his nose and repeat his pee-yoo’s. When at last he subsided, they all seemed to.run out of talk. Dump frowned at his watch; what was keeping the others? he wondered. All Boats In had rung, the lake lay deserted, the waterfront too. Just about everybody, campers and counselors, was already indoors, engaged in the before-dinner routine known as “powwow,” the final one for the first group of two-weekers.

Fourteen days of camp had already passed, and tomorrow, Sunday, July 3, they would be going home, to be. replaced with a new incoming group, among them, the longed-for replacement for the infamous Stanley Wagner, and the talk in Cabin 7 now turned to speculation on this interesting subject. Whatever he turned out to be like, all the regular Jeremians hoped he would be the kind of boy who would help get them back in the habit of winning. For, until this summer, “Hartsig’s boys,” as they were called, had been prime stuff at Friend-Indeed. Thanks to the leadership of Reece, who had a peculiar knack of urging his campers to feats of prowess that outdid those of the other cabins (although even Reece had been stymied by Stanley), they had garnered more “happy points” and fewer “blackies”

two years running, and (until Stanley had been inflicted on them) had fully expected to do the same again this season. If the new boy lived up to expectations, if he could “show some good old moxie,” and “bring home the bacon” (to use two of Reece’s favorite expressions), and, well, just “fit in,” they might still put it off; they might still see the names of the Jeremians and their counselor formally inscribed on the plaque at the base of the Hartsig Trophy, the handsome silver cup donated by Reece’s dad, Big Rolfe Hartsig.

Voices were heard out on the line-path, and in a moment two more Jeremians entered the cabin. -

“What’s going on?” demanded Phil Dodge, the taller and huskier of the two. “Jesus, Peewee, are you completely nuts!” he exclaimed, spotting the boy lolling grandly on Reece’s cot.

“No. Why?”

“You’re messin’ around on Big Chief’s bed, that’s why.” The counselor’s cot stood in the center of the back wall, between the sets of double-decker bunks (four to a side), and was made up in the military style, with a footlocker at the foot (monogrammed “R.A.H.” - “rah-rah Reece!” -for “Reece Adam Hartsig”).

Phil shagged Peewee off the cot and went about neatening the blankets and pillow.

Meanwhile, Peewee had turned his attention to the frog dangling by its hind legs from the second boy’s fist.

“Boy, that’s a whopper. Where’d you get it?”

“I caught it,” said Wally Pfeiffer, his tongue bright pink from the Necco wafer he was sucking. “I stunned him with a rock.”

Phil gave Wally an exasperated look. “So what? Who waded in and grabbed him? Don’t think you’re so hot. And listen, kiddo,” he added, “didn’t I tell you that candy’ll make you break out? You know how Big Chief feels about pimples.”

Wally gave his pal a grim, tooth-clenched look and spat out his half-melted wafer. Phil Dodge, a square-headed boy with a hard-packed body, a spiky pineapple haircut, and eyes that never told you anything, was cabin monitor and Reece’s second-in-command, enforcing the counselor’s dictums as he could (which meant mostly in matters concerning the unassertive Wally) and even aping his mannerisms. “All right, camper, let’s hop to it,” Phil would say, and “Listen, kiddo, I don’t want to have to tell you again” - and when Reece said “Listen, kiddo,” Phil really did “hop to it.”

Now he couldn’t mask a certain satisfaction in having bent Wally to his will, which made Wally burn silently. Wally could never hope to measure up to Phil; he was a skinny, dour-looking lad with limp, flaxen hair and the pale, puffy-lidded eyes that resulted from an overactive thyroid - a condition that probably accounted for his perpetually drowsy expression and morose disposition.

“We both caught him,” Phil asserted, willing now to be generous. He took the frog from Wally and gave the creature a shake. It emitted a croak of protest.

“Boy, he sure is fat,” Peewee said admiringly. “Can I have him?”

“What for?”

“I bet Oats’d let me keep him in the lodge,” Peewee said. Oats Gurley was the camp nature director. “In a box. I could have him for a pet. Or we could blow him up.” “What’re you talking about, runt?” Phil demanded. “You know, like a balloon,” Peewee said, refusing to be cowed by Phil’s contemptuous glare. “I seen Reece do it once. He took a soda straw and shoved it up this frog’s ass and blew it up. It floated in the water but it couldn’t swim.”