The Wildman (4 page)

“He didn’t run away, and he’s not hiding. Jimmy would never do something stupid like that.”

“You sure?” Evan asked. His pale, thin eyebrows arched like twin commas above his eyes. He seemed to resent that Jeff was the center of attention. “If you’re so smart, where is he?”

“I have no idea,” Jeff replied, reacting as if Evan’s question was a veiled accusation that maybe he knew more than he was saying. “When did
you
see him last?”

For a tense moment, Evan stared straight back at him, not even blinking until—finally—he cleared his throat and said, “Last I saw him was when we all did. At the softball game.”

“So what do you think happened?” Tyler asked, wedging his way into group the way he always did. “I’ll bet you a million bucks he ran away.”

“And—what, is swimming for the mainland?” Mike Logan said.

“Why would he do that?” Jeff asked.

Both he and Evan stared at Tyler until he backed up a few steps. Then Jeff said, “Last I remember, he said he had to take a dump and left to go to the crapper.”

“And he didn’t come back,” Mike said, “‘cause he’s a
pussy.
He’s probably hiding in the woods somewhere, cryin’ like a little baby ‘cause he struck out ‘n is afraid I’m gonna pound his sorry ass.”

“Hey! Watch the language in there!” Mark Bloomberg, their counselor, shouted. He was standing out in front of the tent, talking to several other counselors. Jeff had thought he was far enough away so he and the other counselors couldn’t hear them, but that was obviously not the case.

“No way,” Jeff said, lowering his voice and shaking his head in such firm denial someone might have thought Mike had called
him
a pussy.

Mike was a head taller than the other boys and was the “jock” of the group. For him, it was all about winning. Not just in sports. In life, too. Everything was a contest to see who was fastest and strongest and best. He always made a game of things, even stupid things like who would get dressed and be first in line for breakfast, or who could finish cleaning his section of the latrines before anyone else finished with even one sink or toilet, or who could carry the most baseball equipment out to the ball field from the storage shed when it was game time. Everything was a competition for Mike, which wouldn’t have been so bad if he was a good sport. But Mike hated losing, and he never accepted it when he or his team lost. If another tent beath their tent, Mike took it personally. And he always lost his temper because when his team lost—which was rare—it was never
his
fault. It was
always
someone else who had blown the game.

“’
Sides,” Jeff said, eyeing Mike cautiously, “we had a man on first and third, and you were on deck. We were gonna at least tie the game.”

“A tie ain’t good enough,” Mike said through clenched teeth. His dark eyes gleamed with a strange light as if not winning was a personal affront.

“The question is, where the hell—” Tyler tensed and cast a wary glance at the counselors to see if any of them had heard him swear. Lowering his voice, he finished his thought. “So where the
heck
is he?”

“
Someone
must have seen him … wherever he went,” Jeff said.

Again, Jeff eyed Evan, looking at him as though he didn’t quite trust him. There was an odd blankness in Evan’s expression, and Jeff had the impression he knew more than he was letting on.

“So what’re we gonna do about it?” Fred Bowen piped in. Fred had an edge of nervousness about him that never went away. When he was really upset, he even stuttered, but the kids felt bad for him and never made fun of him.

Fred didn’t speak much. Maybe, it was because of the stutter. Or it might be because he lived in Chelsea, right outside of Boston. He had a shy quality that had always made Jeff feel sorry for him. The first summer they met at Camp Tapiola, when they were eight, Fred had confided in Jeff, telling him about how his stepfather, who was a drunk who worked at the docks, beat up on him on a regular basis—especially when he was drunk, which was most of the time. The two weeks at camp, he said, were the only time all year when he felt as though he could actually breathe. Jeff couldn’t imagine living with such fear in his life, and it bothered him that, even with the safety of his friends at camp, Fred never seemed to relax fully.

“We can’t
do
anything,” Evan said, straightening up and drawing everyone’s attention away from Jeff. “The counselors and staff are gonna organize a search party. ‘Sides. He couldn’t have gone far … certainly not off the island.”

“How do we know he didn’t take a canoe or try to swim?” Jeff asked. “Has anyone checked to see if all the boats are in?”

Evan pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Do you think maybe he got, you know, like, homesick and took off?” Tyler asked.

Jeff snorted with derision. “He lives in freakin’ Connecticut, f’rchrissakes. What do you think he’s gonna do, walk home?”

“I think we should be in the search parties,” Evan said. “The more people involved, the better chances of finding him.”

Tyler’s blue eyes suddenly lit up. “You mean like a wide game—a camp-wide hide ’n seek?”

“Island-wide,” Mike said. “There’s no guarantee he stayed on the campgrounds.”

“This is freakin’ serious,” Jeff said, feeling a surge of anger at Tyler and Mike. He wanted to tell them about the bad feeling he had, but he wasn’t quite sure how to explain it. He didn’t want any of them to think he was nuts or something, either, especially if Jimmy showed up later and was perfectly fine.

But he’s
not
perfectly fine,
Jeff thought.
He’s not fine at all because he’s dead.

He had no idea how he knew that or even why he would think it, but he was convinced it was the truth. It was just a matter of time before everyone else at camp found out.

The boys fell silent when Mark broke away from the other counselors and walked back to the tent. He stared down at the ground as he walked, and it bothered Jeff to see him looking so upset. It was obvious the adults in charge had begun to realize just how serious this situation was. Jeff had the distinct impression the counselors weren’t sure how to handle it.

“All right,” Mark said, standing a short distance from the tent and rubbing his hands together as he looked from one boy to another. “We’re not sure what’s going on here, but until we locate Jimmy, we’ve decided to ground everyone to their tents.”

A collective groan went up from everyone in the tent.

“That’s not fair,” someone behind Jeff said. It sounded like Mike, but Jeff didn’t turn to look. He kept staring at Mark, unnerved by how frightened he looked.

“You ask me what I think?” Mark continued, his head lowered. “I think Jimmy’s hiding someplace, maybe thinking this is a game or something and how it’s real funny, but this is
serious
. If he’s in any kind of trouble, we have to find him as soon as we can.”

“So how come we can’t help?” Jeff said. He got up from his bed and walked toward Mark. Once he stepped out of the shade of the shade of the tent, the sun was warm on his back, but it wasn’t enough to drive away the chill twisting like a knot of snakes in his stomach. “We could form teams—maybe by tent—and search the whole island from one end to the other if we have to.”

“Like a wide game,” Mike said. Most of the other campers scowled and shook their heads when they looked at him.

“What?” he said, looking from face to face. “You’re looking at me like I got poop on my face.”

“Be a first if you didn’t,” Evan whispered.

“This isn’t a goddamned game,” Mark said, apparently unaware that he had sworn in front of his campers. “If Jimmy thinks he’s playing a joke on us, it’s not funny, and I’m sure Mr. Farnham will notify his parents and have them come and pick him up and take him home. But if he’s in any kind of trouble …”

Jeff didn’t like the way Mark left the thought unfinished. It meant that maybe Mark already knew, too, that something really bad had happened to Jimmy.

“Okay, then,” Mark said, rubbing his hands together. “Tell you what. You guys hang here for a bit, and I’ll talk it over with Mr. Farnham.” He clenched his right hand into a fist and shook it for emphasis. “Until then, though, you guys have to promise you’ll be cool and stay in the tent. Can I count on you?”

There was another chorus of moans and complaints, but everyone agreed.

“You can read or sleep or write a letter home,” he said, and with that, he turned and walked away. He and the group of counselors headed toward the camp director’s cabin.

“Farnham don’t know dick,” Fred said as the boys watched Mark go. “I say screw it. One of our pals is missing, and he might be in trouble. I say we do something about it
now!
”

Jeff shot Fred a questioning look. It wasn’t like Fred to be defiant like this.

“We just promised Mark we’d be cool,” he said, but he also knew that, no matter what anyone did, in the end it wasn’t going to matter.

It was already too late.

Although he had never seen a real dead person, when he closed his eyes, the pool of blackness he saw was like staring into Jimmy Foster’s cold, blank, lifeless eyes.

* * *

As it turned out, the boys spent the rest of the afternoon in their tents. As the sun began to set, a few counselors—not including Mark—came back to the tents and collected the boys to bring them to a late supper. None of the counselors and older staff spoke much, and other than the clank of plates and the clatter of silverware, the evening meal was much quieter than usual.

Throughout the day, the knot of nervous tension in Jeff’s stomach only got worse. He found he didn’t have much of an appetite, but he forced himself to eat anyway because the care package his mother had sent him during the first week of camp had long since disappeared. He didn’t want to wake up late in the middle of the night hungry.

“So what d’yah think happened to him?” Evan asked, leaning close to Jeff across the table. His mouth was full, and he made loud sucking sounds as he chewed.

Jeff bit down on his lower lip, shrugged, and shook his head. He didn’t dare say what he knew was on everyone’s mind. They all should just admit that they knew Jimmy was dead.

“No fuckin’ clue,” Jeff said, not realizing he had just sworn. He didn’t know what the problem was when the counselor at their table—a guy named Ferguson or “Ferggie”—glared at him.

Years later, Jeff could never remember what the cook had served that night for supper. Probably Spam, but whatever it was, Jeff knew he didn’t eat much … if anything. The knot in his stomach got so bad he thought he might never be able to eat again. He’d probably end up in the infirmary, where Mrs. Stott, the camp nurse, would force him to eat. All he knew was eating wasn’t what he needed.

What he needed was to find out what had happened to Jimmy. He wished he could block out the terrible thoughts and images that filled his head. But the tension came to an end when Mr. Farnham, the camp director, entered the dining hall just as the designated campers were clearing the tables before dessert.

The ashen look on Farnham’s face and the fixed, blank stare in his eyes said it all as he walked to the front of the room by the fireplace and, grabbing the nearest chair, leaned against the back of it with both hands clutching the top spindles. Jeff was close enough to see that Farnham’s lower lip was trembling, and his eyes were filmed with tears.

Oh Jesus,
Jeff thought, shrinking into his seat.
I
knew
it! … I
knew
it!

Mr. Farnham cleared his throat, but when he began to speak, his voice choked off. Any other time, this would have gotten a ripple of laughter from the boys, but the room remained stone silent.

“I—ahh …” Farnham’s voice choked off, and he lowered his head and wiped his eyes. After taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and raised his head. After scanning the assembled campers in silence for a moment, he said, “This is perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever had to do.”

It was obvious he was struggling to maintain control.

“After searching the campgrounds and the immediate area, we have— we have found Jimmy Foster.”

Almost everyone in the room either sighed or gasped, but Jeff’s throat closed off with an audible click. He knew what was coming.

“Unfortunately—” Once again Farnham’s voice cut off, making him sound like someone was strangling him, “Unfortunately he … uhh … he’s had an accident … a serious accident.”

Now a collective gasp went up from the campers. Someone—Jeff had no idea who—started to cry.

“Apparently he came down to the swimming area while it was unattended, and he—uh, he fell into the lake. I—I’m sorry to say this, but unfortunately he … he drowned.”

Another, louder gasp of shock and surprise went through the crowd. Mr. Farnham’s words echoed in Jeff’s ears like a rolling thunderclap. He clenched his hands into fists as the blood drained out of his head. Tiny white dots of light spun crazily across his vision, and all he could think was:
I
knew
it!