The Wildman (3 page)

Even after thirty-five years with little or no contact among any of them, a sense of competition was still there. Jeff felt it in the way Evan was trying to “sell” him on his idea of a reunion. As detached as Jeff felt from his job in some ways, especially after the divorce, he knew sales techniques when he saw them, and he cringed at how he was falling for the subtle ways Evan had of “closing the deal.” He didn’t like the pressure Evan was applying, and it irritated him to no end to think Evan was so confident he’d fall for it.

“Yeah … sure,” Jeff heard himself say although he wasn’t exactly sure where
that
had come from. “It sounds like it’ll be a gas.”

A gas? … Christ! I’m already sounding like a goddamned twelve-year-old!

“I’m thinking we can’t really get this together until October or maybe early November,” Evan said.

“That’s kind of late, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but my schedule’s filled solid right through September.”

“I’m just not sure about camping out that late in the year.”

Jeff could tell he was grasping at anything to find an excuse to back out now that, apparently, he had given his tacit approval to the idea.

“The cabins aren’t there any more,” Evan said, “but the dining hall’s still in pretty good shape … at least it was the last time I saw it.”

“When was that?”

“I was out there this summer when they did some percolation tests on the septic system. There’s been a bit of vandalism over the years, of course, but being on the island and all, it’s not as bad as you might think. And there’s the fireplace in the dining hall. Remember that? It’s still in good shape. We can use it for heat and cooking.”

“What are we gonna do about taking a crap?”

“I’ve already arranged for a Port-o-Potty, but com’on. We can take a dump in the woods if we have to. I own the whole damned place.”

Jeff was all too aware of how Evan kept switching from possible objections to appeals to nostalgia, but he closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the huge fireplace in the dining hall. It was made of large, rounded granite beach stones and had a mantel made from a thick, rough-cut log, probably some driftwood that had washed up on the shore. Over the years, campers and counselors had carved their names into the wood.

One year, Jeff remembered, it had rained for a week straight, so the campers couldn’t take their traditional overnight hike into the mountains. Mark Bloomberg, their counselor, had arranged for the boys from Tent Twelve—including Evan, Tyler, Mike, Fred, Ralph, and Jimmy—to camp out in the dining hall. They had cooked hot dogs and, later, when it was time for a scary story, toasted marshmallows and S’mores over the coals.

Good memories, indeed.

But remembering that night also brought back a cold, stark memory of Jimmy Foster. In spite of the warm evening, a chill gripped Jeff.

Jimmy Foster …

That night, after their counselor Mark had told them a particularly frightening story before bedtime, Jimmy had awakened, crying because he was scared. Jeff had heard him sobbing and had talked to him until he finally calmed down.

“Jesus,” Jeff whispered. His eyes widened as he looked around the living room. He half-expected to see his childhood friend in the shadows. He was unaware he had spoken out loud until Evan said, “What’s that?”

“Huh …? Oh, nothing.” Jeff shook his head to clear away the memory. “I was just … You were saying?”

“I was saying we can have a fire in the fireplace and stay warm and dry. We’ll drink beer all night. Smoke cigars. Shoot the shit. Come on, it’s gonna be a blast.”

Jeff chuckled, but it was a short, dry chuckle, and he suddenly found that he couldn’t get the mental image of Jimmy Foster out of his mind. Jimmy had been small for his age, and in spite of the summer tan he always had even before he got to camp every year, there had always been something a bit sickly and feeble about him that had worried Jeff even back then. He remembered feeling sorry for the kid because he knew Jimmy’s father had died when he was little and that he lived with his mother and younger brother in Randolph, Mass.

But maybe Jimmy had always known—even back then—that his life would end prematurely. Whatever it was, there had been something sad, almost pathetic about Jimmy Foster, which only made it worse because of what happened to him.

Jeff considered mentioning that he was thinking about Jimmy, but he decided not to put a damper on Evan’s enthusiasm. Even if he ultimately decided not to show up for this reunion, he didn’t want to ruin it for anybody else by reminding them about what had happened to Jimmy.

It struck Jeff as a bit odd that he hadn’t thought about Jimmy Foster all that much over the years. His death was definitely something he didn’t dwell on, but now that Evan and Tyler had stirred up these old memories, Jeff was surprised to discover how close to the surface his grief and fear—even outright terror—was.

The memory made him more than a little uncomfortable. He shifted on the couch as he cast his gaze nervously around the living room again, not sure what he expected to see.

“Looking at my calendar,” Evan said, “I’m thinking the third week in October is our best bet.”

Over the phone, Jeff heard a series of faint clicking sounds. He had a mental image of Evan scanning the electronic pages on his PDA. Busy, busy, busy.

“Yeah. I can pencil it in,” Jeff said even as, in the back of his mind, a tiny voice was telling him he could always dig up some excuse so he could back out at the last minute. He didn’t even bother to get up and write down the date on his calendar. It would be best to wait until Evan had firmed up their plans so once he
did
back out, it would be difficult if not impossible for everyone else to reschedule.

Jeff wanted time to think about what he was agreeing to. Like any buyer, he didn’t like being pressured to decide. He saved the hard sell to use on his clients … like the Howlands. Now that the memory of Jimmy Foster had been reawakened and was sharp in his mind, his second thoughts were getting the better of him.

“So we’ll get together on Friday, October twentieth,” Evan said, and then he hissed and said, “Oh, shit. No. Wait a second. Damn it! I have something else that weekend. How does the weekend of the twenty-seventh sound?”

Without his calendar in front of him, Jeff had no idea if that weekend was open for him. Chances were it was, but what did it matter? It’s not like his social life was humming at high speed. Besides, now that he was thinking about Jimmy Foster, he couldn’t help but feel as though this reunion idea wasn’t such a good idea.

Why go back there and dig up all those old memories?

Sure, there were good ones as well as bad, but there were reasons the camp had closed and none of them had stayed in touch after that last summer.

“Works for me,” Jeff said, hoping Evan didn’t catch the hollow tone in his voice that clearly signaled his utter disinterest on his part.

You’re not closing the deal here, buddy,
Jeff thought smugly and wanted to say even though he sensed—no, he was
sure
after only fifteen minutes of talking to Evan that Evan was much more successful in life than he was, at least on the material side of life.

But Evan either didn’t notice or, if he did, was savvy enough not to acknowledge Jeff’s hesitation. He wasn’t going to leave a hole for him to wiggle out of.

“Excellent … excellent,” Evan said. “I’ll throw this date out to everyone else in an e-mail tomorrow. Do I have you home addie?”

“Addie?
Jeff thought, smiling that Evan used lingo Jeff usually only heard from his son. He was starting to sound like Tyler. Maybe next he was going to say he’d bet a million bucks they’d have an incredible weekend.

“My work e-mail’s fine,” Jeff said. “I check it all the time.”

“Yeah, but why don’t you give it to me anyway, just in case,” Evan said.

“Sure. It’s
J
—the letter
J,
followed by
came running
… one word—
camerunning
at Yahoo.com.”

He listened to a few faint clicking sounds over the phone, and then Evan said, “Okay … Got’cha.”

Got’cha! … Jesus,
Jeff thought,
maybe he never grew beyond twelve years old either … at least mentally.

“We’ll be in touch, then,” Evan said. “I’m really glad this is falling into place for us. It’s something I’ve been thinking about doing for a long time. I’m glad I finally just said—goddamn it, I’m gonna do it.”

“How about women or significant others?” Jeff asked. “Are we gonna include them, too?”

“Naw. This weekend is just for us guys.”

“You never told me. Are you married?”

Evan chuckled softly and said, “Sure. Have been for the last twenty years. My wife will shoot me for not remembering exactly how long, but we’ve got two great kids, and we’re doing really well.”

“And you live in Massachusetts, right?”

“In Medford. Right outside of Boston,” Evan said.

Jeff bristled and was about to mention that he wasn’t stupid; he knew where fucking Medford was, but he realized he was getting a little edgy … maybe because Evan was so much more successful than he was.

Always taking second place after Evan,
he thought bitterly, but he forced a cheerful note into his voice when he said, “I’m glad you set this thing up. I really appreciate all your efforts.”

“Hey … no problem at all,” Evan said. “Catch’cha later then.”

The phone clicked off, leaving Jeff with a steady buzzing dial tone in his ear. He was mildly surprised that Evan hadn’t said something like “
Later, dude,
”

After a second or two, Jeff replaced the phone and eased back on the couch. He exhaled slowly as he closed his eyes and rubbed them until he saw colored patterns swirling in the darkness. A shiver worked its way up his spine when he thought again about what had happened to Jimmy Foster that summer day thirty-five years ago …

Jesus!
Jeff.
Thirty-five years ago … almost to the day.

He’d have to check a calendar to be sure, but as he sat there listening to the dense silence of the house, broken only by the distant chirring of crickets outside, Jeff couldn’t help but wonder if there was any chance Evan had picked this particular time on purpose.

Had he purposely waited until it had been thirty-five years since Jimmy died before planning this gathering, or was it just coincidence?

“Either way … Screw it,” Jeff muttered, trying to push such thoughts from his mind.

It was getting late, and he had to be at the office first thing in the morning to finalize that meeting between the Howlands and the contractor. Telling himself he might be getting just a wee bit paranoid about Evan’s motives, he eased off the couch, padded into the kitchen, and poured himself a healthy shot of rum. He shivered when he took his first sip and felt the burn rush down into his stomach.

Rum in hand, he shuffled back into the living room and, heaving a sigh, sat back down on the couch. But no matter how much he tried not to think about it, now that his memories of that long-ago summer had been stirred up, there was no way he could stop himself from thinking about Jimmy Foster and what had happened exactly thirty-five years ago.

“BFF,” he muttered as he leaned back, closed his eyes, and took a huge gulp of rum. “Best fucking friends.”

CHAPTER TWO

The Last Day of Summer

Before he was twelve years old, Jeff had never seen a dead person. Not a real one, anyway. He’d seen plenty of corpses pile up on TV and in movies and comic books, but the only two
real
deaths he could remember in his immediate family were when his mother’s mother, “Grammy Parsons,” died of a stroke when he was eight, and his father’s brother, Uncle Billy Cameron, a railroad man, who drank himself to death.

Both deaths had affected Jeff deeply—especially Uncle Billy’s because, drunk or not, Uncle Billy was one hell of a funny guy. In both cases, however, his parents hadn’t allowed him to attend either the visiting hours at the funeral home or the funerals themselves. His mother told him she wanted him to remember the people he loved the way they were when they were alive, not how they looked when they were dead and all made up by the undertaker.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he was older, Jeff saw how it might have created a warped attitude toward death and grieving on his part. Death had always held a strange fascination for him, and he thought it was in part, anyway, because his parents hadn’t let him confront it head on, as a normal and natural part of life. He had been denied the opportunity, if that’s the correct word, to deal with seeing a dead person—a real corpse—up close and personal.

That all changed on a hot July afternoon following rest hour when everyone in camp went into panic mode because Jimmy Foster had gone missing. As soon as he heard the news, Jeff knew something really bad had happened because of the cold, sinking feeling of dread in his gut.

“I’m tellin’ yah,” he said to his tent mates as they huddled in the sun-dappled protection of the brown canvas tent they all slept in. He was sitting Indian-style on his lower bunk with his tent mates gathered around him like he was holding court.