The Seventh Wonder: A Novel

By May Lamar

Army brat Anna Jo Grant is a fish out of water during the turbulent summer of 1971 and gasping for life. Anna Jo's dad is in Vietnam, her guilt over the death of her mom and little sister is debilitating, and her stepmother is god-awful, just like her complexion. Her only comforts seem to be a stolen dog named Troop and Joni Mitchell's new album until she's unceremoniously dumped at a camp called The Nest--where no one is expecting her. Here she discovers empowering new friends (one of whom is in big trouble) and the knee-buckling news that her treasured canine, thought to be safe back at the base, is missing. Thus begins the summer adventure of her young life. Narrated by both Anna Jo and Troop, The Seventh Wonder is not your usual summer camp romp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888512395

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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The Seventh Wonder

A Novel

May Lamar

ISBN 979-8-88851-238-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-239-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 May Lamar

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

To women who love campfires

At a summer camp called the Nest, years before my tenure there, a campfire built with fat pine saved Tacky Dozier's life.

Traditions are the super glue of summer camp. They make seem contiguous the fractional years spent there. Nest tradition required the head of waterfront to make the first jump into chilly Tukkommeh Lake to start the season. After the singing, Tacky kicked off her Keds, shucked her shirt, and gallantly walked out onto the canoe docks in cutoffs and a dingy bra to the delight of one hundred and forty females cheering her on from shore.

No one noticed in the moonless June night that something was roiling the spring-fed waters. Tacky blew a kiss to shore, executed a perfect swan dive, and landed atop a big frenzied ball of mating snakes. She surfaced screaming, with one serpent on her head, one twining around her neck, and several on each shoulder. But as mean as moccasins are, they didn't bite. They fled. Snakes dislike the smell of pitch on their tongues, and Tacky, after having sat for an hour in an intermittent cloud of thick pine smoke, must have emitted a terribly offensive odor.

There is more to a campfire than fire.

An opening campfire signals the beginning of a brand-new life, eight weeks long. This is a camp life, and it is as different from real life as my palm print is from yours. Its brief duration impregnates the days with an urgency to really live. It's where, twenty years ago, I remembered how.

To comfort me, God first sent me a dog. To heal me, he sent me to women who love campfires.

The Canoe Song

Once a boy and a girl in a little canoe with the moon shining all around. He paddled his paddle so you couldn't even hear a sound. And they talked and they talked 'til the moon grew dim, he said you better kiss me or get out and swim. (Traditional)

Chapter 1

Dad's new wife knocks again, this time harder and with the flat of her hand, on the hollow core door of my tiny army-issue bedroom.

I know by Troop's spiked fur and flattened ears it isn't the twins from next door. I sit up, quietly place the needle back in its stand, and slide my new Koss electrostatic stereo headphones down around my neck. Joni Mitchell's poignant soprano confessions will have to wait. I lean into Troop's ear and whisper the code name.

Victor Charlie, I say. Good boy, Troop.

I hear her manicured nails hiss against the wood veneer as she reaches for the lockless knob. I see the knob slowly rotate and brace for impact. Juliett only traveled to my end of the house to create trouble.

Anna Jo?

It is June of '71. The Pentagon Papers have just revealed the twenty-five-year-old lie that is Vietnam. College kids are marching against it. Poor kids are marching through the jungles of it. The songwriters I love are setting the whole thing to music. And at a US Army Post in the Deep South, there is another, more personal conflict brewing. It's between a restless stepmother, a stolen dog, and one basket case—me.

I slouch against my study buddy on the floor of my semi secure foxhole and try to remain neutral. The door opens to reveal Juliett's cheerleader smile under detached, heavily marked brown eyes. Salad-plate-sized gold loops swing from her earlobes. Her white silk top exposes her cleavage, and a floral maxiskirt presides over strappy high-heeled sandals. Juliett is a dark-eyed Doris Day slipcover over a tattered Shelly Winter soul, and she outranks me.

Why aren't you packing?

I stroke the satiny black saddle across my German shepherd's red-and-tan coat without speaking. It has been less than two years since the pyracantha barb entered my twelve-year-old body. The barb festers in my gut, just below the breastbone, and I keep myself carefully contained so as not to disturb it. In spite of this debilitating hang-up, I maintain an active protest schedule—One, two, three, four! We don't want your lousy war!—if only in my harassed imagination.

Juliett's showtime smile twitches at the effort it takes to keep it at full capacity. She resembles a pretty nurse with an enema bag behind her back.

We need to get going!

The stench of tobacco smoke and dime-store cologne floats into the room. Handsome, athletic Troop utters a barely audible whimper. He is US Army-trained to smell trouble.

I decided not to go, I answer evenly. You said it's my decision. Nearby, an oscillating fan sits on a rough wooden crate half filled with my beloved record albums. It whirs toward Juliett and blows away the smile but not a lock of her dark hair.

Juliett grasps either side of the doorframe, leans in menacingly, and the curtain comes down on the happy stepmother act. Her eyes flash heat, and she speaks with a clamped jaw through recently purchased white caps.

Well, guess what, Missy? I'm in charge around here, and you're going.

I know as soon as she addresses me as Missy, I may as well start packing. Standing up to this velociraptor in Lilly Pulitzer is not possible with a gut wound.

There are two Julietts—the merry, step-and-fetch seductress Dad sees when he is around and the chain-smoking, martini-infused corrupt prison guard she becomes when he isn't.

Someone outside taps a car horn twice. Voices and the slam of a door follow. Juliett plucks an imaginary thread from her skirt and pretends to watch it fall. A dozen white rubber-banded paper tubes stand in a group against one dull-green wall. Due to previous tape and thumbtack damage, bedroom posters are against regulations here at army post number five for me, not to mention four civilian housing stints before the accident.

I keep a hand on Troop, and the feeling that passes into it from his steadfast warmth holds me steady. Before he deployed, Dad had said I was approaching the sunset of my awkward years. The braces had realigned my wayward teeth. He said my natural blond highlights, dark lashes, and deep aquamarine eyes are a gift from Mom. But all I see in the mirror, when brave enough to look, is stubborn pubescent acne. The fight against it has stretched into a second year. As soon as one group of red bumps retreats, a squad of angry replacements arrives. They come each month. The harder I fight them, the harder they fight back.

At our last Post, the dermatologist had said to avoid chocolate and stress. But what about the stress of having acne? I asked him. He put a hand on the doorknob to signal the end of the consultation, and I left without asking about the stress of personal devastation or the stress of being detested by Dad's wife.

I'll stay out of your way, I say to Juliett. This is an easy promise since I excel at staying away from Juliett.

Troop's intelligent amber eyes aim at her like the twin barrels of a shotgun. She glances down at him and steps back a little.

"You think I'm going to sit around in Hicksville all summer?" Juliett spreads her long fingers across her cleavage as if to clarify that she is indeed Juliett Grant and not some other girl's nightmare. That's when I realize her summer plans, whatever they are, have precipitated my own. I was raised to be stoic and to accept the next move to wherever. I was told that constantly starting over from scratch at a new school is somehow what I owe my country. I never questioned this mantra until the accident.

Anyway, she says, camp started yesterday, so chop-chop! Juliett claps for emphasis, which causes the heavy charm bracelet on her right wrist to jangle like an alarm.

The pyracantha pricks me at the sight of the bracelet. Juliett must have gone through the box marked Mom. It had been in storage until our latest move. Did Dad know?

With a wary glance at Troop, Juliett enters my small space, steps over me, and struggles to maneuver a small beat-up suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. She dislodges a yellow hatbox, and it lands on my lap with a faint chime.

I lift the top to check the contents and hear Juliett sigh.

This is all you have?

In the box are a number of tissue-wrapped Christmas ornaments, collected from the places we had lived, plus the tree topper. No damage. My throat tightens up.

We were collecting them—

I meant the suitcase, brainless. No matter. I'll find a duffel for sheets and towels.

I replace the lid, willing the defiant protester, so strong in my mind, to come out. If my sister, Gayle, were here, we'd stand up to Juliett together like Haley Mills and Haley Mills in The Parent Trap. And if Mom were here, well…

What if I don't like it?

Juliett, pleased with such easy victory, pauses to smile at the mirror affixed to the painted dresser we Grant sisters had shared. She can't get over her new teeth.

What's not to like? Juliett replies. The lady I talked to yesterday was thrilled you were coming. She said she couldn't wait to see you.

Liar, I mutter to Troop.

What's that?

Nothing.

Outside the window, the early summer sun illuminates a clipped square of green lawn with its regulation black mailbox at the street. I had yet to learn the address.

I don't feel right leaving Troop here alone.

Juliett flips the clasps of the little suitcase and picks her way across the floor like someone has mined it. She stops at the unmade twin bed and drops it there wide open.

I'll take care of the dog, she says. It's only eight weeks." The dead smile flashes again and quickly disappears.

You don't even like Troop. I am still fighting to remain calm, to no avail. I swipe my nose. These days, my tears run through it rather than my eyes.

"My goodness, what a baby. The twins can take care of the dog when I'm not here. Now pack, you little shit, or I'll do it for you, and wash your face while you're at it. Jeezuss."

Victor Charlie retreats quickly after that, closing the door just ahead of Troop's measured chuff. The epithet, soft and low and full of disrespect, sums up both our feelings.

With glee, Juliett yells, Chop-chop! once again as she disappears down the hall.

I put my arms around Troop and bury my head in his fur. It always smells of Prell shampoo, thanks to the ten-year-old twins next door. They have seen their father once in two years, and their mother rarely emerges in daylight. Mama likes the vodka, one of them had initially volunteered. The twins had tagged along when I took Troop for his first walk on Post. They soon were asking daily if he could come out and play. They love Troop like I do. Troop fetches their endless balls and shakes, with patience, their endlessly proffered twin hands. He endures long, drawn-out beauty appointments at the improvised dog salon in their garage. At least he'd have the twins, and at least they'd have him.

My new favorite album leans in its deep-blue cover against the dresser. Its title is Blue. I'm not quite finished learning all the songs by heart.

So…Victor Charlie is getting rid of me, I whisper.

Troop brushes his tail back and forth across buckled drab-green carpet that precisely matches the bare drab-green walls. Fluent in body language and tone, he knows the crisis with Victor Charlie, whatever it was, has passed for now.

Later, I toss the Blue album in on top of my clothes—maybe there would be a stereo—and snap the suitcase shut. Troop alerts, this time with ears forward. Right on cue, the Levy twins, Kimmy and Janet, appear in perfect symmetry at the door. They are trim, athletic little gymnasts and cute as new pajamas. I am finally beginning to tell them apart. They are thrilled to hear I am leaving. Now they can have Troop all to themselves. I give them a house key and get a phone number. After they leave, I collect my toiletries, including a big glass bottle of acne medicine. I hope I won't be the only one there who sleeps with pink dots on my face.

Packing done, I walk into the semi-updated, World War II-era kitchen. The smell of cooked cabbage prevails, even over Juliett's Pall Malls. It seems trapped in the fruit cocktail wallpaper. Juliett has her back turned and is talking quietly but intensely into the kitchen wall phone. Beside an open roadmap, a deserted cigarette burns in Mom's company ashtray on the chrome-rimmed yellow Formica table. Other than this, plus Dad and the charm bracelet, I briefly wonder what else of Mom's is now Juliett's.

Um.

Juliett turns around sharply, placing her palm over the mouthpiece.

What?

Can Troop ride with us so he'll know where I am?

To my great surprise, Juliett brightens. Oh, she says, sounding vaguely pleased. Okay, fine. Troop had never been allowed in the station wagon if my stepmother was riding, so I take it as a minor victory.

As I leave the kitchen, Juliett resumes her conversation with whoever might be on the other end.

Back in my room, Troop is sitting beside the closed upright suitcase, looking hopeful. The sight of him so eager to please seizes my throat. The sight of mothers with children at the PX does too. Mom and Gayle would have loved Troop. But. They. Were. Gone. They had left me alone to deal with a leper's face, a hateful guardian, and a pyracantha thorn in my intestines. Joni Mitchell, with her clear, cool Canadian skin and Blue songs, is the only one other than Troop who seems to understand.

Troop

In Nam, Spencer and the men call me Good Boy Hank. Spencer is the one who shows me how to act. He feeds me. He is my main man in Nam. We load up in the chopper, fly over the trees, and then land so we can start walking through the bush with the men. Mostly, I stay up front sniffing for VC. Once, on a long hump, I wear out. Spencer carries me two klicks in the hot sun before we rest. He splits his water with me. He has treats in his pocket. I love Spencer. He is my main man in Nam.

In Nam, I'm called Good Boy Hank because of my exceptional nose. In Nam, Spencer shows me how to use my nose to help the men. He teaches me words too. He touches a tree and says tree for instance. He points at a man rolling a nail and says, He's dumb-as dirt. Don't be a dumb-as like that. He points to a FUBAR and says, This is a dumb-as war.

Dumb-as is a word Spencer uses all the time. Spencer knows I am no dumb-as.

FUBAR is army talk for when bad things happen, like when they radio for a strike, and the men get it instead of the VC. Sometimes the medics sting the men with sticks and put white towels on them to stop their red leaks after a FUBAR. A FUBAR is caused mostly by dumbasses like McNamara and LBJ, whoever they are. I'm proud of all my words, but it's my exceptional nose that keeps the men safe over and over—but not always—in Nam.

VC like to ambush the men. VC smell like hot spices and the dirt in deep holes where they live. Some days I can pick them up a klick away, and when that happens, I alert in a crouch. Up goes my fur, back go my ears, and down for cover go the men. When it's over, they all say my name—Good Boy Hank.

During rest, the men suck nails and lose the ball for me. They give me C-Ration treats like Kool-Aid spaghetti if Spencer says okay. Some like to touch my fur and talk about other dogs back home.

I don't remember much about leaving Nam. There was a blast. Spencer is leaking red all over, and medics come with the white towels. They sting him with sticks. I can't get him to open his eyes, and I start crying. A medic comes over and stings me too. I wake up in a dark place and can't get out, but I'm groggy and go back to sleep. I dream about airplanes. Eventually, I hear a zipper, and a man pulls me out of there. I find out later his name is Dad. Dad takes me to meet a chick, whose name I learn is Anna Jo. I am so tired. Anna Jo holds my head and gives me water. She finger feeds me soft chow until I get better. Anna Jo has kind eyes the color of ocean water, but they are sad, and so is Anna Jo. She brushes me and talks to me anyway. Anna Jo calls me Good Boy Troop. She doesn't know my name is Good Boy Hank. She plays music for me. One song she plays a lot. It starts with a long howl—"Bluuuuuuuuhoohooouue." The chick singing is a very high howler. I try to howl along one day, and Anna Jo laughs and shows me her teeth, so I howl whenever she plays the song to see her happy.

When I get stronger, she starts losing the ball for me and taking me for short easy humps on flat ground. Then just as I am learning how to play and not sniff for VC, they load me into the back of a covered jeep. Dad drives three suns until we stop for good. He leaves us the very next sun when the chick called Victor Charlie comes. He is in a big hurry. Victor Charlie breaks glass and slams doors in the moon after Dad goes. Anna Jo and I stay quiet in our nice little foxhole with soft ground. She shows me how to alert to Victor Charlie, which is simple because Victor Charlie smells like spent nails and disinfected latrines. Victor Charlie's eyes are dark like the tunnels in Nam. I keep a watch on Victor Charlie, but I am respectful because she is with our unit.

I worry about Anna Jo. Where is her squad? I want to see her pretty white teeth. I want to protect her because Anna Jo is my main man now.

On the day of the stateside FUBAR, I am lying alongside her, thinking about steak tips, while she listens to the high howler through these new black ear covers Dad gave us. I alert to Victor Charlie like always, but I completely miss the ambush that follows. I still feel ashamed when I remember how far I let Anna Jo down. I'm a duty dog by training, but that day I was a real dumb-as.

The Watermelon Song

Just plant a watermelon right upon my grave and let the juice (slurp slurp) run through.

Just plant a watermelon right upon my grave, that's all I ask of you. (Music by Frank Dumont, lyrics by R. P. Lilly, first published in 1910 by M. Witmark & Sons)

Chapter 2

We leave Post in Dad's wagon, cross the river, and turn onto a highway with my suitcase sliding across the way back until it hits the other side. A song from Blue is running through my head. "I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling…" It should be my personal anthem. I'm sitting in the back seat with my arm around Troop, who is studying the scenery with his mouth slightly open and his bottom teeth showing like he does when he's concentrating.

The road is flanked on either side with bright-green row crops of uncertain variety. Cotton? How would I know? This is my first deployment to a true cotton state. Occasionally, a jagged creek bed disrupts the uniformity of the combed fields.

Tension is riding shotgun as a fourth passenger; the sun is a white blur in a cloudless Carolina blue sky. Juliett cracks a window and maneuvers her cigarette into the automatic lighter. We come upon intermittent clumps of cows, their hides like maps of unknown worlds, twitching tails in the warm shade of lone pasture trees. Every now and then, beyond the cows, I catch a glimpse of large homes with huge wraparound porches that have swings and rocking chairs, which I assume provide rest for the people who own all the cows and supposed cotton. I didn't have much experience with such porches, but these look very inviting.

Farther along, we come to a community of tired, untidy houses squatting in the dust of the roadway. The houses have no pretense left. They sit with peeling paint and roof tarps amid rusting farm equipment, crumbling outbuildings, and rowboats full of last year's leaves. Skinny curs lay chained and panting in the heat. I'm not used to bedraggled houses like these. Not one would pass inspection on Post.

I hate Southerners, Juliett announces. They're such pigs. She drags heavily and exhales toward the window crack.

In a counteroffensive, I crank my window down all the way, then lean over Troop and do the same with his. The rush of air sends the unfolded map in the front seat flying.

Roll up the windows, Anna Jo! Juliett shouts. She takes a quick puff and tosses out the cigarette to concede the point. Later, we blinker onto a much smaller road with halfway-patched potholes and asphalt worn in spots to the rock layer. My god, look at this road! Juliett continues, mainly to herself. And the litter! For all her complaining, she seems to be enjoying herself.

The litter reminds me of snow just beginning to stick, and we eventually overtake the ancient tractor-trailer from whence it came. The truck lists drunkenly to one side with gray smoke trailing. White wisps are escaping and dancing in the air behind it. Getting closer, we see that the trailer is stacked with hundreds of small wire cages holding windblown white chickens, their tiny bead eyes pointlessly watchful. Just as Juliett pulls around to pass, the truck slows, and the driver hand signals a left turn. He eases with painful slowness onto a dirt road marked with an aluminum sign on a creosote pole. The sign is pocked with bullet holes, and the right half is bent back. Only an arrow pointing left and the word good—obviously a partial—remain visible.

I lean over and whisper to Troop, Not for the chickens. I put my hand out and receive a low canine five.

Farm flatlands give way to rolling hills. We cross a narrow rock-filled river on a curved wooden bridge and pass into woods at a small sign reading Entering Tukkommeh State Forest. The road suddenly becomes smooth again. Juliett pulls over onto the narrow shoulder to study the map.

Does the dog need to go? Her eyes flick across the rearview mirror. It is clear she isn't a map reader like Dad and me. She keeps twisting it this way and that. While I knew to keep north at the top, I decide not to share this knowledge.

Troop and I get out and walk through the wiregrass fringe toward the trees. Troop puts his nose in the air and growls into the unknown. The air is drenched with the perfume of honeysuckle smothering an old fence line. It reminds me of wildflowers in a field near our house in Germany and of the time Gayle and I made from them a flower necklace for Mom.

Juliett is out of the car smoking when we return. She is checking her sandals warily lest some crawly thing violate her person. The three of us pull back onto the road with my suitcase making another lap across the back of the wagon. The forest closes