The Echoes of Summer

By John Kendall

It is 1956, and although Jonathon Statler is barely fifteen, he is already a proven survivor.

Locked in a world of loneliness and abuse, Jonathon has nonetheless managed to learn golf and tennis, and embrace a levelheaded approach to life. He has paid a price, however. He is grossly overweight and short on self confidence. His eyes are more often on the tops of his sneakers than level with the world around him.

Until one magical summer when Jonathon meets Malcolm Platt, the Director of Robert Morris Camp for Boys, and Angus McClatchy, a former teacher who now considers himself nothing more than an old man and, finally, a sensitive young woman named Becky Wilson.

The Echoes of Summer is set against a background of racial and religious tension so prevalent during the 1950s. Author John Kendall captures the interaction of youth and age that provides the catalyst for a story that lifts the spirit and makes it soar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 9, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462082209

John Kendall

John Kendall grew up in New England and spent many summers at a boys? camp similar to the one depicted in his book. He has enjoyed writing for many years. This is his first novel. Kendall lives with his wife and two children in Wales, Maine.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

BOOK ONE GROWING

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

BOOK TWO MATURING

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

To my best friend Peggy, whose abiding love and friendship have been the great wonders of my life. Thank you for two wonderful children, twenty-five great years and more understanding than I sometimes deserve. With all my love.

And to my brother Richard, who was always there.

Prologue

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September, 1949

The blackboard was covered in even rows of chalked lines, four to a group. A double space separated one group from another. Before going home the night before, Miss Annabel Percy had taken great pains in drawing those lines absolutely parallel, using a large ruler to assure consistent spacing. Years of experience assured that there were just enough groups to hold all twenty-six letters of the alphabet.

She had returned this morning, a good hour before her students, to draw those twenty-six letters in upper and lowercase form. The capital letters stretched across all four lines, the lower case letters covered only the bottom two. By the time the bell rang, a full complement stared silently out at the third grade classroom in anticipation of the first writing lesson of the year.

The alphabet resonated with the art of the Palmer Method. Fifty-two perfectly formed Victorian ornaments that were more art than practical substance. Art that her students would learn by copying. To Miss Percy’s way of thinking, proof once again that the best teaching is based on example, an ordered form of learning to be mastered by repetition and rote. The ‘A,’ for instance, was identical in upper and lower case, both formed as something halfway between an oval and a circle, each with a perfect tail—like that of a cat sitting on its haunches—moving away from the bottom.

Minutes after finishing, Miss Percy smiled as her students shuffled into the room and past her perfectly shaped lesson. A few eyes studied the blackboard as they walked to their desks. When all were quietly in place, Miss Percy greeted them. Good morning, children.

And as they had been taught, they responded, Good morning, Miss Percy.

She looked around the room. After attendance, she announced with a tight smile, I will commence with your first writing lesson. You should be excited, for this will be your form of written communication for the rest of your life. She flashed a second pinched smile, pleased with her little speech, which was as well practiced as her letters after thirty-seven years.

And so they commenced, on sheets of mimeographed paper with blue groups of lines identical to the white chalk marked ones on the blackboard. Her directions were concise. Copy what you see. She then traced a few letters while they watched, moving her hand with uncharacteristic flourish before adding, All right, class, you have thirty minutes to duplicate the alphabet. With that, she sat down behind her desk, and opened a book. She peered up every minute or two to be sure her charges were studiously going about their business.

Jonathon Statler sat in the middle of the five rows of students, three seats back from the front. He was already up to the letter ‘G’ and doing very well. His letters flowed across the paper, an almost perfect artistic match for those on the blackboard, except that they were smudged a bit from his hand passing through the ink. He hadn’t quite mastered the left-handed technique of keeping his hand raised a little in order to keep that from happening, but he was working on it. He was halfway through the capital ‘J’ when a hand suddenly squeezed his shoulder, and he looked up into a set of rock hard eyes.

"We do not write left-handed in this class, Jonathon, Miss Percy announced in a voice that matched her eyes. You will use your right hand like the other students." With that, she placed a fresh mimeographed sheet on his desk, removing the other one and crumpling it into a ball before dropping it carefully into the wastebasket as she moved back to her desk.

Sitting, she congratulated herself. She had almost missed it in the confusion of a new lesson, only remembering when she glanced at the notes tucked neatly in the right side of her blotter. Jonathon’s father had warned her that Jonathon sometimes lost focus and reverted to his left hand. He had been most explicit that he did not want that to happen, and Miss Percy fully understood. Left-handed people were so…were…well, different. Unordered. Almost inferior. It was all so very clear to both of them, and she had noted Mr. Statler’s petition as the most important of nine items that she wanted to remember about her incoming class.

Jonathon frowned as his right hand fought awkwardly to form a capital ‘B.’ Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he stared back at his ‘A.’ It looked more like a falling down ‘O,’ and he was ashamed that he couldn’t do things the way he should. The way other students did.

He squeezed the tears back and went on with the struggle.

BOOK ONE GROWING

CHAPTER 1

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1956

The line of children wound toward the porch of the barn-like structure at the rate of about two steps every thirty seconds. It was the second day of the first monthly session of the Robert Morris Camp for Boys. A warm July Sunday punctuated by a hazy blue sky fast turning to the gray of thunderheads. One oh four, Captain Malcolm Platt announced as the latest camper stepped off the scale and disappeared across the porch and out of sight. Next.

Beads of sweat rolled down Jonathon Statler’s face as he inched along toward the embarrassment that surely waited. He pulled at his gray shorts, lifting them a little higher, and wished for a hole to crawl into. Ninety-seven and a half, Captain Platt said this time, and the line moved again. Jonathon’s hands went involuntarily to his stomach, and he pushed hopefully. But the flab spilled back over the waistband as soon as he let the pressure off. He fidgeted with his tee shirt, and took another step forward.

Well, well, the voice said this time, now only a dozen campers away. A hundred and twenty pounds, Billy Lacey. You’ve certainly been at the feedbag since I saw you last. The Captain laughed, a long, low sound that rumbled from him in a pleasant crescendo, leaving no doubt that he enjoyed his summer kids. We’ll have to work a little of that off of you this month. He pointed toward the end of the porch. Now run! he said, slapping Billy’s bottom like a coach sending a player into the game. Another chuckle followed Billy across the porch. As Billy disappeared from view, the Captain turned back to motion the next camper onto the scale.

* * *

Robert Morris Camp had not been Jonathon’s idea. That was for sure. He would easily have settled for another idle July of wandering Bayport and fishing off the pier. A month of doing next to nothing before their month at the ocean. But his parents had other ideas, which they voiced one night after a family dinner during the first weekend of February vacation.

Do you remember Roy Peterson? his father asked as they headed toward the kitchen with a handful of dishes.

Jonathon could almost remember him, but not quite. He shrugged.

He was your Cub Scout leader when you were eight. Remember? I was his assistant. We had a lot of fun that year. He works for me now. Drives a delivery truck.

Jonathon remembered. Mr. Peterson was the man who taught him to shoot a bow and arrow. How could he have forgotten that! I remember, he answered cryptically, no hint of his joy in remembering showing in his voice. He wouldn’t give anything away until he knew the reason for the question.

He’s going to be the rifle range instructor at Camp Robert Morris for Boys this summer. He says it will fill in the time while he can’t deliver oil for me.

So? Jonathon asked, wondering what this had to do with him. He dropped the dishes on the kitchen counter and noticed his mother staring at him. What was going on?

His mother spoke. He told us all about the camp, and your father and I think you might enjoy a month there before we go to the ocean. It would give you a chance to learn new things. Her look was hopeful.

And get me out of his hair for a month, Jonathon thought. I like having July to myself.

There’s a meeting in Portland tomorrow night, and we’re going, his father said. We’re all going. His tone brooked no disagreement.

There were over a hundred people at the meeting, almost equally divided between parents and children. Jonathon was one of the few in the company of both his parents. He would rather have had the additional freedom of being with one.

At seven o’clock sharp, a short, sinewy man, sporting a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and dressed in dark brown shorts and a tan tee-shirt proclaiming ‘Director, Robert Morris Camp’ in dark letters, entered the room from a door at the back. He strode purposefully to the podium amidst a wave of grins and not a few giggles. Well, I see I have your attention, he said as soon as he adjusted the microphone down a level. I like new campers…and their parents, he added after an appropriate pause, to see me in my natural habitat, even if it is winter. This is the way you’ll see me this summer, if you’re lucky enough to come to our camp. Every day, unless it gets very cold. Then I’ll add a sweatshirt. He smiled at the group, and continued. But don’t worry, parents. I put on a clean uniform every day, just as I expect your children to do. Now there was laughter, as the ice broke and was swept away in the good cheer of this small man. My name is Malcolm Platt, by the way, but most folks call me ‘Captain’ or ‘Malc.’ You should do the same. I hate formality.

A slide show followed. Jonathon remembered only two things about that; the first slide, and the Captain’s infectious good cheer as he talked them through a tour of the campgrounds. The first slide showed the entire camp staff, some sixty strong. The Captain pointed and named each one with obvious pride, noting, We have one staff member for each five campers. That’s among the highest ratios in the Northeast. That fact impressed Jonathon’s parents. Jonathon barely noticed; his eyes had remained glued to the screen for the full five minutes that the staff picture remained there. He had never seen so many Negroes in one place in his life. There were eight in the picture. He counted them twice to be sure. Eight. Jesus, he muttered under his breath, and his stomach turned over in fear.

"Is that spelled "S…t…a…t…l…e…r…s…i…r?" the Captain asked, chuckling as he went, and making sure to emphasize the last three letters.

There were snickers from behind, but they died quickly when the Captain’s eyes turned hard for the briefest moment, before settling back onto Jonathon. "Well?’

Jonathon stuttered. "N.n.no, sir. There’s no s…i…r at the end."

Precisely, Jonathon. And you remember that. I answer to ‘Captain’ or ‘Malc.’ Take your pick. But not sir. Never call me sir. Do you understand? he asked gently. That goes for you, too! he added loudly, raising hard eyes for the second time in twenty seconds to silence the snickers.

Yes, sir…Captain, I mean, Jonathon managed, before lowering his head to stare at his sneakers.

Good! Captain Malcolm Platt said with enthusiasm. Now get out of here. He winked as his right hand guided Jonathon around the scale and pushed him toward the other side of the porch. He leaned to whisper as Jonathon slid by. „I‘ll catch you later, camper."

And with that, Jonathon Statler and the Captain became friends.

CHAPTER 2

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Lines crossed and re-crossed the weathered face that looked out from the rocking chair, making it a cousin to the rock bound coast of Maine that stared back. Those lines dove deep into the folds of skin, and would have provided a firm foothold for many a climber had they been stamped in the face of a cliff. Scottish, the face sang to those who knew of such things, and if it had been twenty years earlier, a kilt and bagpipes would have confirmed that fact on most summer Saturdays. The nose was crooked, cocked slightly to the right, a souvenir of a brawl at the Black Swan in Edinburgh, the culmination of his twenty-first birthday celebration. His eyes were still the color of blue delft crystal that pleased his mother so much at his birth, and were still what people remembered the most after walking away from a first encounter. His hair, unfortunately to his way of thinking, had long since turned silver, chasing away the bright carrot red of his youth and any hint of the temper that lay underneath. Other things had changed as well. He was slower, for one thing, bent slightly from the settling of his bones. He was also sore much of the time, the result of demanding too much from deteriorating muscles.

Seventy-five, he had decided on his last birthday, was almost too long to live. Live that long, Angus McClatchy thought as he stared across the harbor from the porch of one of the clustered cottages that formed a small summer enclave overlooking Nestle Harbor, Maine, and you have precious few friends left.

If any, he added to himself as an afterthought.

I don’t even need my toes now, he often told his granddaughter Nancy, to count the number of older friends I have. And even half of those are beyond help. As if in proof, he thought of the last time he’d visited Martha Sinclair at the Nestle Manor Nursing Home. He had found her sleeping deeply at ten in the morning, quieted, he learned later, by a heavy dose of drugs administered for the convenience of the nursing home staff. He shivered.

His granddaughter appeared through the front door, almost skipping into his presence. Good morning, Granddad, she said cheerfully, setting down a tray on the table beside him. Have some orange juice and a muffin. She turned to look outside, and then remembering a message, added, Patrick O’Malley called, not ten minutes after you went to bed. He wondered if you were meeting him for golf today. He said he was teeing off at eleven.

Angus looked at his wristwatch. World War I issue and still running like a top, it read nine-thirty, plenty of time if he had a mind to play. I’ll think on it, he said, reaching for the muffin. He wondered why she always used Patrick’s full name. He knew only one Patrick, and so did she as far as he knew. He looked at the muffin and grimaced. Bran again. In spite of his thoughts, he took a bite and began to chew. Bran or not, he was glad to have her with him. He swallowed and took a long drink of orange juice, before asking, What are you up to today?

Nancy smiled the coquettish smile of youth. I’m going to show my body off to the boys on the beach, she answered, turning the smile to the wicked grin that she saved just for him. See if I can create a few fantasies for the poor things!

Angus looked at her, and knew she could. At five foot two, with a twenty-three inch waist and thirty four Bs—he guessed at this, of course, though experience told him he was right—she would conjure up more than a few fantasies among the male population around here. And if she weren’t his granddaughter, he would have been right in line with the rest of them. He grinned at her, not feeling quite so old as he had a few minutes before. Get out of here, you young harlot, he said, reaching to squeeze her hand.

She patted his shoulder and disappeared back through the door.

CHAPTER 3

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The names spoke of bygone summers. If they had been photographs, there would probably have been a touch of sadness in the faces. The result, no doubt, of fading that often leaves only a ghost of reality staring from the frame. But these were just lists of names, leaving everything to the imagination of the reader. The walls of the barn were lined with these lists, each marking a single year in the existence of Robert Morris Camp for Boys. Every camper was forever enshrined in the calligraphy of memory, back to the first year of 1911. Jonathon Statler counted just fifty-seven names on that first list, including the seven staff members and the honorary Director, Robert Morris, who was already eighty-eight years old. Jonathon remembered that fact as the sole bit of information Malcolm Platt had shared in February, just before he added, And that’s all you’re going to learn about our founder until the fourth of July. If you’re lucky enough to be with us, we’ll tell you more. He had winked toward the group of young people. And then, you can decide whether to share the information with your parents. An air of mystery had descended, but was soon forgotten. Until now, that is, as Jonathon walked from list to list, mouthing the names and imagining. Robert Lewis Clark, he read out loud from the 1917 group. John Stuart Wellington, he added, then Jeremiah Wilson Johnson. All as old as my old man, he thought as he moved on. The middle names became initials in 1934 and never reappeared. After that, there was less magic in the names rolling from his tongue, and Jonathon stopped reading.

The barn was older than the camp, a massive one room affair framed and raftered with hand hewn beams during the mid eighteen hundreds. Built to house the animals of a farmer, Jonathon guessed. The wood had aged to a deep chocolate brown over the years. A fine patina for such a place, Robert Morris might have said. A year before the camp opened, the Directors had purchased the land from one of the farmer’s descendants. One of their first projects turned the barn into a central meeting place and a place for rainy day activities. A stage was added at one end, complete with a velvet curtain of deep maroon, and a pine floor was secured over the dirt. Other than that, however, the place remained much the same as the day it was built until electricity and lights were added in 1930.

A voice interrupted Jonathon’s thoughts. A lot of history here, Jonathon. And you’ll soon be joining them as part of the year nineteen fifty-six.

Jonathon jumped and let out a small squeak, the sound of a mouse when attacked by a cat.

Sorry, Malcolm Platt said from ten feet inside the doorway, I thought you must have heard me. He crossed the room, and extended his hand. Jonathon took it in a weak grip, and mumbled, „I was thinking about them. His hand waved in the general direction of the lists. „Miss Simpson said you wanted to see me, he added, fear creeping into his voice.

The Captain noticed his tone. „Are you afraid of me, Jonathon?"

„No, sir," Jonathon lied in a low voice.

Captain Platt‘s voice was suddenly full of good cheer. „Good, because no one here should be. And, Jonathon, he added with a grin that confirmed his mood, „it‘s Malc or Captain. Captain or Malc. No more sir!

Ten minutes later, Jonathon was back in his bunk in the Wentworth Cabin, one of ten that housed the senior campers who ranged from age ten to sixteen. He turned toward the wall and unobtrusively wiped the moisture from his eyes. He had weighed a hundred sixty-eight pounds in the wind-up, and though Captain Platt had assured him that it would be their secret, he knew it couldn‘t be. His counselors would soon know, and then the other kids. He wished he were dead.

CHAPTER 4

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The round black dot of the bulls-eye stood framed in the lollipop circle of her front sight. She took a deep breath as she eased the sight counter-clockwise in a tight circle, and brought it back to envelop the black once more, leaving only the thinnest line of creamy white around the outside. Half of her breath sighed past her lips before she stopped it and gently squeezed the trigger until the hammer fell and sent the 22 bullet through the target. She concentrated on the recoil until the rifle barrel steadied again, precisely covering the bulls-eye for the third time in the last twenty seconds. Ten, she announced happily.

Susan Scripture, the rifle range instructor at Diana Morris Camp for Girls, moved her eye away from the telescope. She waited a moment while the other four shooters on the range finished. Cease fire, she yelled then, and held up her hand, forming an O with her thumb and forefinger. The paper barely moved on that one, Becky. You have a nice tight grouping, all around the bulls-eye. A perfect fifty.

Rebecca Wilson smiled, but said nothing. She was used to perfect scores. Unless the wind was blowing, she rarely scored anything else from the prone position. Even a relatively light wind could move a bullet slightly as it traveled the fifty feet to the target. A good wind made shooting a lot more challenging. And more fun, as far as Becky Wilson was concerned. But she would definitely take the fifty.

With you and Mary and Linda, and a little luck, Miss Scripture added, we might hit five hundred in a match this summer.

That’s been done, already, Becky reminded her. The proof hung proudly inside the entrance of the dining hall, five happy faces caught in mid-grin five summers before, a reminder of the July, 1951 match against Robert Morris

Camp for Boys, and of what was possible. At the end, the score read 500 to 497, with eight perfect scores between the two teams. Five of those belonged to the Diana Morris girls, a fact that they were quick to share with their brother camp when the opportunity presented itself, which had been twice each summer since.

Becky’s older sister Sarah had been a member of that team. Becky longed to be part of a repeat, but perfect scores were rare at this level. Still, who better than another Wilson to be part of such an accomplishment!

She unslung her rifle, and rose along with the other four girls, stretching out the tension of the past five minutes as she moved across the firing range to retrieve her target. After crossing the fifty feet, she dropped to her haunches for a close look. Her five shots had completely removed the ten ring, and left an almost perfect circle in its place, a circle no bigger than three bullets. It was a perfect fifty, all right.

Becky removed the thumbtacks, and placed a fresh target over the hole in the wood plank before tacking it in place. Then she stood and headed back down range. A happy whistle flowed from the hole in the midst of her full lips.

CHAPTER 5

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July fourth was Captain Malcolm Platt’s excuse to act like a kid again, and he made sure that Robert Morris Camp celebrated the event twice each summer. The first time, of course, on the date itself. And the second time, four days into the second session, on August fourth, so that the campers who came only for the second month didn’t have to miss it.

As soon as the alarm clock jangled at 6 a.m., he jumped from his bed and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. So much fun awaited his campers. Especially the new ones who were to be officially initiated into the Robert Morris family. Only then would they be allowed to walk the gauntlet in the right of passage, each to become a member of one of the four tribes that made up the Council.

Malc made strong coffee in his aluminum percolator, and took a full cup to the front porch of the small log cabin that had become his home each summer for the past ten years. As always, the air was pungent with the smell of pine, and he breathed deeply. He never tired of the first gulp of this sweetness. He stood for a moment relishing the morning.

The cabin faced east across a small meadow already tall with summer grass. A hundred yards out, the grass reached the edge of a forest that stretched for half a mile down a long slope before reaching the bare-bones civilization of Jackson Notch, Maine. The town, if it could be called that, consisted of a single building housing the Selectmen’s office, the Grange Hall and a general store. A gas pump stood off to the side of the store, completing the town’s only business.

A wide front porch stretched the entire length of the cabin, some twenty-four feet from side to side, and Malc walked back and forth for several minutes to stretch his legs. Then he leaned on the high railing to watch the sun spill over the treetops and send the first morning light to chase slanting shadows across the meadow.

Captain Malcolm Platt would turn fifty-one today, on the same day that his country would turn a hundred-eighty and his camp forty-five. In many ways, he looked every bit the middle-aged man he had become. Leathered skin stretched tightly over his small frame, the product of too much harsh sunlight in too many places. His hair was salt and pepper gray, more salt than pepper if truth be known, and was thinning quickly at the back of his head. A quarter shaped piece of skull was already naked to the sun, and the promise of things to come spread out in all directions. Except when he smiled, his eyes looked forever tired—haunted, many said—and often wandered away from conversations into a private world that was hard to penetrate. That habit had been the last straw in a failing marriage that had left him single again eleven years before.

But in other ways, the camp director looked years younger. His face was almost classically handsome, and only slightly wrinkled from the years in the sun. Hard muscles covered his body, the by-product of daily runs down the dirt road and through the countryside. Runs that kept his waist a slim thirty inches and his weight hovering around a hundred-twenty pounds. His friends marveled that he could still bench press his weight twice over, and his doctor bragged that Malcolm’s reflexes were those of a twenty-year-old. Staying in top shape was a left over habit from his years in the Marines, as was rising early. In those two things, he would probably never change.

He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a cigarette and match. Striking the match on the railing, he lit another leftover habit from the Marines. He allowed himself only two cigarettes a day now, one with his morning coffee, and one with the three ounces of Jack Daniels he sipped before retiring each night. He inhaled deeply and blew a thick smoke cloud out toward the woods. Lousy habit, he admitted out loud, but I do enjoy the damn things.

He stared across the meadow for another five minutes while he finished his cigarette and coffee, and then looked at his watch to confirm that it was time for reveille.

days, most campers—and their counselors—trained themselves to awake at this scratching, so that they could dive under their pillows and block their ears from the Military reveille that followed. Played at a decibel level that was enough to wake the dead, some said the trumpet could be heard for two miles or more on cool mornings when a light breeze was blowing in the right direction. All Jonathon Statler knew was that he hated it. Because he was a deep sleeper, he never heard the scratching, and therefore came awake scared, his heart beating rapidly as he scrambled for safety. Invariably, he was on his hands and knees crawling across the floor before he remembered where he was. That was where he found himself now. Jesus, he almost screamed, the word escaping before he could stop it.

Not Jesus, fatso, his upper bunkmate chortled. The Captain, like always.

Laughter filled the cabin. Jonathon’s morning antics were now anticipated with great interest, and seven pairs of eyes stared intently in his direction.

Knock it off, their counselor yelled from the alcove at the back of the cabin, and get ready for morning assembly.

Jonathon crawled back to his bunk in silence, and began to dress. He squeezed his eyes briefly against the pain, but said nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, two hundred thirty-three identically dressed campers stood shoulder to shoulder at the top of the knoll. They formed a single straight line facing the camp flagpole. This is a very special day for Robert Morris Camp, Captain Platt said proudly, and I want some enthusiasm when you say the Pledge of Allegiance this morning. Let the world know that you’re proud to be a member of this camp, and prouder to be an American.

The entire group shouted the Pledge of Allegiance as the flag slid up the pole and seated itself at the top. A warm breeze whipped it straight to the right as if a hand had reached down and pulled it taught.

Good job, all of you, the Captain shouted, and then added, Dismissed.

The campers stampeded toward the dining hall. Twenty yards up the hill, Billy Mason, a first year counselor, watched Jonathon Statler lumber far behind the others, his eyes glued to his sneakers. Billy spat on the ground, and followed him down the hill.

the swim team, something that the camp could use in view of its record over the past three summers. Even better, more than a hundred former campers attended the forty-fifth anniversary luncheon. Now the camp was quiet in siesta until one o’clock, when the two main events would begin. The ‘Shootout’ at the rifle range, and the Grudge Match at the tennis courts, both highlights of Camp Day, pitting counselors against campers for bragging rights.

Campers and counselors were randomly divided for these events, but Captain Platt always ended up in charge of the tennis courts. His staff knew that he hated guns of any kind, and had made tennis his domain from the time he arrived.

Here’s how it works, he said after stepping up onto the stand that was labeled ‘Enemy Soap Box’ on each side in bright red letters, evidence of the humor that ruled these events. Your opponents, he went on to a chorus of boos as his hand moved across the sixteen counselors who stood on his left, will take turns playing a worthy opponent who they will choose from among you. He waved his hand vaguely across the campers clustered in a tight knot to his right, and they cheered raucously. The sound became deafening, and the Captain was forced to raise his voice to be heard. The first competitor to score four points wins. There will be three segments of ten matches each, and the team that finishes with the most wins will receive a special prize. And, as it’s an even year, the campers win if the match ends in a tie.

As if on cue, one of the older campers yelled, What’s the prize this year, Captain. And you better make it good! The cheers redoubled.

The Captain smiled. I’ll make it good, all right, Jimmy. I think we’ll run you up the flagpole at retreat. Let you flap in the breeze until morning, maybe! His laughter rumbled across the court.

More boos exploded to his right, as the veteran campers continued their part in one of the rituals of Robert Morris Camp. Nothing was more anticipated or more enjoyed than this competition.

The prize is two days of overlooking unkempt beds and dirty floors!

The cheers returned, even louder now if that were possible, and the Captain put his hands over his ears in mock surrender before shouting, All right, Phillip West! Malcolm’s hand stabbed again and again at the senior member of his staff who, by tradition, was the first to play. Choose your opponent and let the match begin!

Jonathon watched Phillip West emerge from the back row of counselors. He was a tall angular man, halfway—give or take—between six and seven feet who looked still bigger to the young campers. He walked over to the six tennis racquets leaning against the barn wall that bordered the courts. He chose a racquet, hefting it and twirling it deftly in his left hand, a move that grabbed Jonathon’s attention for an instant before it was overwhelmed by the obvious. Jonathon swallowed in fear. Phillip West was a Negro. One of the eight Negroes he had stared at as they flashed onto the screen in February. Jonathon had been at camp for the better part of four days now, and he had seen all of them from a distance. Four worked in the kitchen, two women cooks and two men who washed dishes and were the camp’s handymen the rest of the day. The other four were counselors. Jonathon had observed the counselors at morning assembly and retreat, but never this close. He swallowed again, and looked down at his shoes.

The Negro’s voice reverberated around the court. Jimmy Southmade! A squat, muscular youth emerged from the campers and walked over to choose his weapon. Though the name didn’t match up, his olive skin definitely said that he was Italian.

Philip West won the match four points to three. Each succeeding match was almost as tightly contested, and it became obvious that the counselors were evening the odds by choosing opponents whose talents matched or exceeded their own. Or absent that, by playing a number of points with their left hand. This showed in the score. After an hour of competition spread over ten matches, Captain Platt remounted his soapbox and announced, to no one’s surprise, Campers five, Counselors five. Commence the second round!

At match eighteen, Billy Mason searched for his second opponent. Billy was a first year counselor, and had chosen a new camper in the first round. He had then proceeded to dispatch him with four hard shots that had given the youngster little chance at a return. An uncomfortable silence had descended for a moment, but the match was soon forgotten as hard fought match after hard fought match followed. Billy now eyed a crowd that had grown suddenly quiet in memory. You, he said loudly, pointing to the back where Jonathon was studying the tops of his sneakers. You with your head down. Get out here and play. Jonathon’s heart jumped into his throat and his head snapped up. The words had not been a request.

When Jonathon hesitated, the voice boomed again, Come on, big guy. Let’s go!

Jonathon finally walked to the wall and began to study the available racquets. He heard whispers beside him, one very clearly. Shit, it’s the fat kid. We’re a goner! Might as well make the score ten to eight and get on with things.

Jonathon blinked, but continued his vigil. He eventually chose a red-rimmed Spalding and pushed his fingers against the strings to judge their firmness. Satisfied, he turned toward the court.

Captain Malcolm Platt stood off to the side studying Jonathon with whimsical interest. Had he caught a small glimmer of confidence in those heretofore silently frightened eyes? He nudged the man beside him. Watch this one closely, Freedom, he said quietly to the camp’s minister. I think it might just be interesting. The minister raised his eyes in question, but the Captain had already shifted his attention back to the court. Play on, the Captain said, as he did before each contest.

Jonathon picked up the three tennis balls resting against his side of the net, and walked slowly back to the service line, where he moved to the right of mid-court to serve diagonally to the left as tennis required.

Give it your best shot, big guy, Billy yelled across the net. You’re only going to get four chances, so enjoy them. He came up on the balls of his feet, and began the mincing little kangaroo jumps that tennis players use to keep themselves ready. Jonathon tucked one ball into his right pocket, then turned to roll a second toward the back screen. He switched his racquet to his left hand long enough to slip his right into his other pocket and around his lucky chestnut. He rubbed it for luck. Facing back toward the net, he pointed his racquet directly at Billy and lobbed the third ball about a yard into the air. He came up on his toes, watching the ball intently until it approached its apex, then swung his racquet up and over, down and through, making contact exactly an inch after the ball started its drop. The ball rocketed toward the net, cracked solidly against the net wire, and dropped to the court.

Fault, Captain Platt said loudly. Second service. He watched more intently now, knowing something interesting was about to happen.

Billy’s eyes opened wide, and he stopped dancing for a moment. Jonathon pointed his racquet a second time, and lobbed the ball he had extracted from his pocket into the air. This time, the flight was softer, and the ball nestled into the inside corner of the receiving box, on Billy’s backhand. Billy hit it on a line to the opposite back corner. Jonathon never moved, though his eyes clearly followed the ball.

One nothing, Billy, the Captain announced. Change serve.

Billy won the second point just as easily, driving his first service into Jona-thon’s backhand corner. Jonathon’s racquet flashed quickly across his body and made contact, but the ball bounced harmlessly away. The campers groaned audibly, their cause now hopeless.

Malcolm announced the score, Two nothing, Billy, then nudged Freedom Church and whispered, Did you see the kid’s reflexes? He’s quick.

Freedom shrugged. He’d seen nothing to get excited about.

Jonathon’s first serve found its mark this time, ticking the center of the line and pushing Billy back on his heels. His return lacked both the accuracy and power of the initial point, and Jonathon hit a hard forehand crosscourt. Billy’s return would have taken Jonathon right between the eyes if he hadn’t dropped like a rock.

Out, the Captain said in a loud voice. Billy two, Jonathon one. Next point.

Billy trotted to the net and gathered the two balls that rested there. He grinned at Jonathon, who tossed him the third ball. Jonathon was about to turn away when Billy said, A split second more, big guy, and you would have been history.

Jonathon set his jaw and stared at Billy before walking away.

Billy’s toying with him now, Freedom Church commented six volleys into the fourth point.

Malcolm Platt nodded. He had been watching Jonathon’s legs turn rubbery as he chased down shots from one side of the court to the other, his returns invariably going right down the center as usually happens when a tennis player is on the run. Billy hardly moved before flicking the ball back to the other side. It was a wonder to most that Jonathon could even move his bulk quickly enough to get to the ball, let alone hit a return with any velocity.

And then Billy made his only mistake of the match, one that coaches lecture against at every opportunity. He took his eye off the ball for just a split second while he chose a