What It Was Like (9 page)

“W-w-what's the matter?” she stammered, stamping her feet to generate some warmth.

“My fingers won't work,” I said, separating the keys and trying to pick out the ignition key.

“Here it is!” I opened the driver's side door and let Rachel dive in, just missing the steering wheel. I scooted in after her and slammed the door. I jammed the key into the ignition and revved up the engine.

“It's fur-eezing!” she wailed, rubbing her hands together and moving up close to me.

“It'll heat up soon,” I reassured her, checking to make sure that I had the heater on high.

I turned to her, relieved to see her non-moustached face and flowing hair again.

“It'll heat up
now
,” she said.

We fell into each other's arms, and . . . and the rest is personal. Extremely personal. (The memories of those moments and moments like them are just about all that I have left to myself. Almost everything else about Rachel and me has been excavated, dissected, and displayed by the judicial system and the media, in tandem, for all the world to ridicule and/or enjoy. Can't
some
things be private anymore?) Let's just say that when we surfaced some time later, the windows of the Super-Coupe were all clouded, and we were where all lovers want to be. I didn't know what time it was, so I turned on the radio.

“What time is it?” Rachel asked.

“That's what I'm finding out.”

“Do we have to go back?” she said forlornly.

I looked at her, so lovely in the faint light, and said sadly, “What a question.” She knew exactly what I meant. I turned on the radio as she started to look for her shoes. There was not a lot of room in the Super-Coupe, and it was hard to see.

But then I tuned in a station and Cousin Brucie announced that it was 11:38.

“Oh, crap,” I said.

So we switched into frantic, high-gear getting dressed. It was like a sped-up silent movie.

“It's OK,” she said. “We're going to be late. I've already missed the C.I.T. curfew.”

“No, we are
not
going to be late!” I said, starting the engine with only one arm in my shirt, but we had to get going. “I refuse to give them the satisfaction.”

I hadn't missed curfew all summer, and I wasn't going to miss it tonight. And I just had a feeling that Jerry or Harriet or somebody would be there, at the Main Office, checking.

I sped all the way from Bailey's to Mooncliff. I know that I probably made some illegal moves, but I don't think I was totally reckless (though Rachel gasped once and had to hang onto the door handle on a couple of turns). The Super-Coupe screamed into the parking lot at four minutes to midnight. I slammed on the brakes, skidding in the gravel as I pulled into Stewie's spot under the trees. I should have been quieter and stealthier, coming back so close to curfew and with an illegal C.I.T., but time was tight so I had no choice. I kissed Rachel goodbye quickly and deeply, wished her good luck in sneaking back to Girls' campus undetected – she was already late for her C.I.T. curfew by almost an hour – and ran full-speed up to the Main Office, still pulling on my jacket. And I was right to do it.

As I walked into the Main Office at exactly two minutes to midnight, according to the big clock on the wall, sitting right there on the other side of the counter was Jerry, waiting; crew cut erect and wide awake. He was pretending to read the sports section of the
New York Post
, but he wasn't kidding anybody.

“Hi, Jerr'!” I greeted him happily. “Just in time!” I said as I signed in on the clipboard at 11:59.

He looked up at the clock, unsmilingly, then back at his newspaper. He seemed truly disappointed that I beat the curfew.

“See you at Line-Up,” I said brightly, “In just about” – I checked the clock – “seven hours and forty-five minutes.”

He didn't even smile as I waved to him, walking out. I guess I shouldn't have taunted him like that, but he was such a jerk: he almost
required
it. Didn't he have better things to do at midnight? Why be such a nitpicker/taskmaster/fanatic? It was only summer camp. Still, he was my boss. There were only two-and-a-half more weeks left in the season, and I shouldn't make things any worse for Rachel or myself. My father always told me, “Don't make things worse.” I should have believed him.

≁

When I got back to my bunk, everyone was asleep, thank goodness. It was cold, but I showered anyway. Afterwards, I remember lying in my bed, still buzzing, unable to sleep. I remember hearing a coyote in the distance, howling something that seemed very important to him. I can hear its echo in my mind to this very day.

My mind kept tossing over and over again, the same thoughts, the same worries: Did Rachel get back to her bunk undetected? Did those Junior girl counselors recognize us at Bailey's? How difficult were Rachel's parents
really
, and how much trouble would they make for us/her in the future? And how would I fit this all into my freshman year at Columbia and all that schoolwork to come?

I don't know when I got to sleep, but I must have, because the next thing I knew it was morning, and the Very Fat Doggy was throwing up in the bathroom because of all the green-and-white popcorn he ate the night before at the basketball game. I owed Stewie for use of the Super-Coupe, among other things, so I stayed back to deal with the Very Fat Doggy and his foamy emerald vomit. It was really repulsive; the last thing I needed that morning.

Of course we were late, the Very Fat Doggy and I, getting up to breakfast, so I didn't see Rachel at Line-Up. As we walked into the Mess Hall, I looked over at her table. She was there, but she was sitting with her back turned to me so we didn't make any eye contact. But it was good to see that she was there.

Just as I sat down at my end of the table, the Very Fat Doggy was constructing a stack of pancakes and drowning it in syrup.

“What is
wrong
with you? You just had your head in the
toilet
!” I yelled at him. He tried to answer me, but his mouth was too stuffed for his words to be intelligible.

“Kids have no feelings,” Stewie said from the head of the table as he whacked the Doggy Bully, who had been elbowing the Smart Doggy, on the head with a spoon. “Stop that, dummy!”

Just then, from nowhere, little Esther from the Main Office scuttled up to our table and whispered something into Stewie's ear. He listened carefully, with his eyes closed, concentrating hard. We watched him listen until Esther said, “OK?” and walked away.

“
I
 . . .” Stewie announced. “Have an important phone call that cannot wait.” He bunched up his paper napkin, threw it on his plate, and got up.

“Hey! Dogs! Do me a solid and be nice,” he said and walked quickly away in the direction of the Main Office.

“You heard him, animals!” I said, taking charge. “Be solid, and be nice.”

After breakfast, I waited on the porch for Rachel as long as I could, even as I kept getting dirty looks from Estelle through her cigarette smoke.

But when Dale, from behind me, called, “Hey, is Stewie back? Who's watching your bunk?” I knew that I had to go.

All morning, I didn't see Stewie. All through Inspection and First Period down at the Nature Shak – which I was supposed to have free – he was gone. As I watched the Doggies watch Norm the Bug Guy dissect a bullfrog and make its dead legs jump with jolts from a big dry-cell battery, I was getting more and more annoyed with Stewie. Rachel's bunk had tennis First Period, and I wanted to try to track her down there; now I couldn't.

“Where's Stewie?” asked the Doggy With Braces three times until I snapped at him.

“Shut up and stop drooling,” I said. “No one knows. Turn around and watch the show.”

I sat on a bench watching as the Doggies squealed with delight/disgust when Norm the Bug Guy's scalpel cut deeply into the frog's body and a jet of formaldehyde squirted across the table.

“Now, boys!” Norm cautioned them, and they instantly calmed down. He had such a good way with kids, a voice of patience and assurance. I was so far from that kind of counselor. For me, the kids were an annoyance and an obstruction. They were always
in the way
of my real life.

I heard someone walking up behind me and turned just in time to see Marcus with a big smirk on his face. He was huffing, a little out of breath.

“Hey,” he said. “Here you are. Dale wants to see you.”

“What?” I replied.

“At Jerry's Shak,” he said. “He's waiting for you.”

“Who?” I asked. “Dale or Jerry?”

“
Both
,” he answered with a little too much joy in his voice. “I'm supposed to watch your bunk.”

Damn!
I thought,
we got caught.
I could think of no other possibility as I walked up from the Nature Shak to Jerry's. Those Junior girl counselors must have seen us and told somebody. Or maybe Rachel got caught walking back last night. I
knew
we shouldn't have gone to Bailey's, no matter what Rachel said. I know that she was upset about her parents and everything, but I should have talked her out of it. In any case, as I walked to Jerry's Shak, I knew that I was in trouble, a place I was generally not accustomed to being. At least not until I got to Mooncliff and fell in love.

I knocked on the door and stepped in. Dale was there alone, sitting in a chair, waiting for me. I could tell he was waiting for me by the grim look on his face.

“Hey, Dale,” I said as I entered. “Marcus said you wanted to see me.” I decided to play it cool and innocent. Dale didn't say anything at first. He just kept looking at me. Then he shook his head and sighed. He put his hands on the armrest of his chair and, with great effort, pushed himself up to a standing position. He stood there, looking at me with serious eyes.

“Let's go,” he said.

He walked right past me and out of Jerry's Shak. Without saying a word, I followed him.

Dale was a big man, striding across the campus pissed off, and I had to fast-walk to keep up with him. I wanted to say something to him, but I didn't dare. I didn't even ask where we were going.

Finally, Dale broke the silence, spitting on the dry August grass, saying, “This is
exactly
what I told you
not
to do!”

At first, I thought we were going to the Main Office, but he bypassed the Main Office and headed straight for Stanley Marshak's house. This was weird: just yesterday I was standing outside Stanley's house, when Rachel was in there, and now I was being summoned there. This was like being called into the principal's office but
worse
. This was an actual job that I was being paid for.

I must have hesitated at the top of the path to Stanley's front door because Dale barked at me, “Let's go!”

I followed him down the walkway. On the front porch, he let out a deep, disgusted sigh and rang the doorbell. I couldn't even look at him in the face. Dale had been fair to me all summer; this was not a good way to pay him back.

The front door swung open, and unsurprisingly, there was Jerry, looking down on me with a sneer.

“Come on in, wise guy,” he said, as Dale held the screen door open for me. Stanley Marshak's little house was by no means a shack. You walked in, and it was a different world of luxury and comfort. He had great air-conditioning and a big color TV. With its fluffy furniture and puffy carpeting, it was actually nicer than Stanley's house in Roslyn where he interviewed me what seemed like a million years ago.

There was a living room and, beyond that, an office area where Stanley was sitting behind a big desk, waiting for me. With Jerry on one side and Dale on the other, I walked in. I was trying to be completely calm and I was, until I saw that Harriet was there, too, standing in the corner, arms crossed in front of her, glaring at me in the same perfect Mooncliff running suit that she always wore. I could almost see the rays of hatred emanating from her narrowed eyes.

“Sit down,” said Stanley, pointing bluntly to an armchair, catty-corner to his desk. I sat while Jerry, Harriet, and Dale took places around the room, all looking directly down at me.

“So,” said Stanley, sitting back in his wide leather desk chair, smoothing one end of his moustache with his fingers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

For a change, I was smart and kept my mouth shut. I didn't know exactly what they knew, and I didn't want to get Rachel and myself in any deeper trouble than we already were. So silence was golden, for the time being.

“
Well
 . . . 
?
” Stanley said, leaning forward. I guess he didn't like my golden silence.

“I don't know what you want me to say,” I started, sounding very humble and reasonable.

“Damn!” sputtered Jerry in the corner angrily. “We should just fire his ass! Him and all the other anti-American, peacenik punks!”

Harriet shushed him, though I could tell by her steely look that she sympathized with him. But Dale spoke up for me.

“Come on, Jerr',” said Dale. “That has nothing to do with anything!”

And it didn't! I kept my politics pretty much to myself that summer, except in conversations with friends, of course. And Rachel. The Assistant District Attorney also tried to drag my supposed anti-war feelings into the trial. All I can say about that is: if being against the War is a crime, then half the kids in this country would be in jail with me.
More than half!
End of sermon.

“Look, son,” said Stanley sternly, trying to drill into my eyes with his, “you know what you did was wrong. To take an underage C.I.T. off campus – at night – to a
bar,
breaking her curfew.
 
You know that's wrong, don't you?”

He had me; I knew he was right, and he knew that I knew that he was right.

“What can I say?” I said, simply and slowly. “She asked me to. She was upset, and she asked me to.”

Harriet snorted in disgust. “Oh my God.”

Stanley held up his hand to stop her. “No,” he said, “let him talk!”

I had to come up with something else to say.

“That's really it,” I said, looking at Stanley for some understanding. “You know Rachel and –”

“I know Rachel Prince very well,” Stanley cut me off. “She is a very lovely girl, but let me tell you: coming from a broken home like she does, she has certain . . . problems.”

Anger flashed through me. Who was he to talk about Rachel that way?

“Well, that's –” I started to defend her.

“Shut up!” snapped Stanley. “You were wrong! You were wrong, and she was wrong. You knew it, and
she
knew it! So don't make any . . . any –”

“Damn, we should just fire his pinko ass!” sputtered Jerry, unable to contain himself.

“But we
can't
, Jerry!” said Stanley, shutting him up again. “So stop saying that.”

“
Can't
”
 
fire my ass? What was this?

Stanley leaned toward me, making his leather chair squeak. He looked at me with deadly eyes.

“You know I should let you go, son,” he said. “You were warned before, but you didn't listen. And quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you. With your background and education, I had very high hopes for you.”

I hated when adults said they were “disappointed in you” – as if they really liked you in the first place, and now you
mean
something to them.

“I run a clean camp. But because of, because of –
uhhh
 . . .” Stanley was talking straight to me, but he was having trouble getting out what he wanted to say.

“Stewie Thurman –” muttered Dale.

“Stewie Thurman's
grandmother
,” continued Stanley. “I can't fire you.”

“OK,” I said nodding, pretending that I understood him.

Seeing that I was confused, Dale explained things to me: “Stewie's grandmother died last night, so he has to leave camp to go to the funeral and, apparently, deal with this big family emergency and everything, so he's leaving camp today and won't be back.”

Stanley sat up in his chair, both hands gripping the armrests, and declared, “And, I don't care, I am
not
going to leave a bunk with
two
 
new
counselors, even if there's only two weeks left in the season, no matter what the other idiot counselor did.” He glared at me, sat back down, and picked in his ear with the nail of his pinkie.

“You are a fortunate young man,” sneered Jerry to me. “To have Mr. Marshak here as your employer.”

“
Very
fortunate,” added Harriet darkly.

My mind was swirling with conflicting thoughts. “
My
Stewie?” I said. I had last seen him at breakfast when he got that call from the Main Office. But his grandmother
dead
and Stewie
leaving camp
?
 
And that's why they can't fire me? I didn't know exactly what to feel.

“So how did she die?” I asked.

“Oh, who cares??” Jerry spurted. “That's not the point! The point is –”

Stanley cut him off, talking straight to me, “The point is that you're staying in Bunk 9, but only by the skin of your teeth.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger tightly, in demonstration.

I tried not to react, and certainly not to smile.

“
But
,” continued Stanley. “You stay on the straight and narrow, the rest of the summer. You understand me?”

“Yes, I do,” I answered promptly, adding “Sir” after the slightest pause. I didn't think that my “sir” sounded too insincere, but I could sense that Jerry didn't buy it.

“Now get out of here,” said Stanley.

I stood right up. “Right,” I said. “And thank you, Sta – Mr. Marshak.”

“Thank me for what?” he said. “If the old lady hadn't'a died,
you'd
be the one on your way out of here. Not…not…not –”

“Stewie Thurman,” Dale finished the thought for him.

Seeing my chance to go, I turned and left the room, my head down, before anyone said anything else to me. I didn't want to look anybody in the eye or say anything to get myself into further trouble. I walked straight out the door of Stanley's house and into the fresh air.