The Wildman

Chapter TWO

The Last Day of Summer





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

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

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

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

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

“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 p-ssy. 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 p-ssy.

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 f*ckin’ 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!

As stunned as everyone else, he looked at his friends, all seated around the table. A feeling of desperate sadness all but overwhelmed him. He locked eyes with Evan for a moment and felt compelled to say something, but he had no idea what he would say or even if he’d be able to speak.

The thought that his friends … every single one of them—Evan and Fred and Tyler and Mike … even himself—were going to die froze his voice in his throat. He barely had control of his eyes as he shifted them back and forth from friend to friend and tried to comprehend this horrible thought. The coldness that had gripped him all afternoon settled deeper into his stomach, sending tendrils into his chest.

He wondered if this feeling of dread would ever go away.

In that instant, something fundamental had changed in him.

This was the moment he first realized that life is all too real, and we’re all going to die some day. Even then, he knew it was something he would never be able to ignore or forget.

“Oh my God,” one of the counselors at a table behind him said in a hushed, broken voice. “I can’t believe it.”

When Jeff turned to see who had spoken, all he could see was a sea of pale, shocked faces with wide-open eyes and mouths that gaped open in stunned amazement and horror.

Mr. Farnham was still talking. Jeff realized he had been talking all along, and he hadn’t heard a thing he said. He was going on about how he would have to contact all of their parents and ask them to come and pick them up as soon as possible. The camp season was over.

This was the last day of summer.

As soon as what Farnham was saying registered on Jeff, he glanced at Fred and saw a glaze of tears in his eyes. He suspected Fred was thinking, not about Jimmy being dead, but about how horrible his life was going to be as soon as he got back home.

Mr. Farnham acknowledged that closing camp early would cause problems for many of the campers, since there were still four days left in the session, but he assured them that he would make arrangements for anyone who had to stay the full time. Otherwise, tomorrow morning, he would begin making phone calls to their homes, and they should start packing.

“Man, this sucks,” Evan said, leaning close to Jeff.

Jeff couldn’t look at his friend. He was only dimly aware that he was crying.

When he turned and looked away, his gaze shifted to the windows facing the lake. The sun had dropped behind the mountains to the west, and long shadows stretched across the campgrounds. Blue light suddenly flashed so fast Jeff’s first thought was a bolt of lightning had struck somewhere nearby. He stared at the gathering darkness, waiting for the clap of thunder to come. Instead, a split second later, another flash lit up the darkening landscape.

Jeff’s next thought was that someone was outside taking photographs, and their flashbulbs were lighting up the area. But as he stared out the window, more flashes came until he saw they were in a regular pattern. It was the flash of police emergency lights.

Jeff suddenly knew exactly what was going on.

The police and probably an ambulance boat from the mainland were here to pick up Jimmy’s body.

Mr. Farnham was making such a big deal in front of the campers because he wanted to divert their attention from what was going on outside so they wouldn’t see what was happening.

Jeff shifted his eyes back to Mr. Farnham and then, without a word, slid his chair back and stood up.

“Where you going?” Ferggie, the counselor seated at their table, asked.

“I—uh, I have to go to the bathroom.” Jeff kept his voice low because Mr. Farnham was still detailing their plans for tomorrow.

“Make it quick,” Ferggie said, scowling.

Jeff nodded and, ducking low so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself, wove his way between the tables down the short corridor to the bathroom. A few steps past the bathroom door on the left was an exit.

With a quick look to see if anyone was watching him, Jeff pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the small porch. He eased the door back carefully so the spring wouldn’t snap it back too fast and make it slam. After another glance to make sure no counselors had noticed what he was doing, he jumped off the landing and started running toward the beach and the flashing blue lights.

As he got closer, he slowed down and, keeping to the darkest shadows of the pine trees that lined the beach, approached the scene with caution. As Jeff had expected, a police boat was pulling up to one of the docks that defined the beginner’s swimming area. Two other boats had stopped and were waiting further out. It looked like the entire police force of Arden, the nearest town, was here along with several volunteers.

What caught his attention was the group of people gathered on the beach. The searchlight from the police boat was directed on the beach, illuminating four men who were struggling with a stretcher with a sheet draped over it. The sheet had a slight bulge in the middle that had a sharply defined shadow, cast by the harsh glare of the searchlight.

Jeff knew exactly what was making that bulge.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, trying to comprehend that Jimmy was under that white sheet.

Jeff’s knees had turned to jelly, and he had to lean against a pine tree to keep from falling down.

The men struggled a bit in the sand as they made their way with the stretcher to the dock. They were going to load it and its burden onto the ambulance boat and leave. After that, he would never see his friend Jimmy Foster again.

No … This can’t be happening, he thought as he stared in stunned amazement at the activity on the beach.

He glanced over his shoulder at the dining hall and the row of cabins that lined the pathway behind it. Everything looked so ordinary … so quiet … so safe, but then the sound of someone speaking over the police radio on the boat snapped his attention back to what was happening on the beach. Pressing the side of his face against the pine tree, he watched the men as they approached the water’s edge with their burden. One of the policemen in the boat got out and walked down the dock toward them.

Without making a conscious decision, Jeff pushed off from the tree and, moving mechanically, like a robot, started walking toward them. The muscles in his legs were trembling violently as he headed in a straight line that would intersect the men before the reached the dock. Everyone on the scene was focused on what they were doing, so they didn’t notice Jeff until he was less than twenty feet away from the men carrying the stretcher.

“Hey! Kid! You ain’t supposed to be here,” one of the men shouted.

Jeff looked at him with a blank stare. The town cop was moving toward him, so he broke into a run.

“He was my friend,” Jeff said in a high, strangled voice. Tears streamed from his eyes, blurring his vision and turning the late afternoon light him into a smear of shadows and darkness, pierced by the blue flashing light.

Another man who was closer to Jeff reached out and snagged him by the arm, but Jeff twisted out of his grasp and kept running without breaking stride.

“He was my friend,” he said again before his voice climbed into a wild, ragged scream. Once he was close to the stretcher, he lunged forward. Before any of the men could react, he grabbed the sheet and tore it away.

What he saw staggered him.

He let out a loud, barking bray that echoed from the nearby forest.

Jimmy was lying on his back with his eyes wide open. Unblinking. The glassy surface reflected the flashing police light with an unnatural brilliance. His head was turned to one side, probably from the men trying to move away from Jeff as he ran toward them. Jimmy’s thin, dark hair was wet and plastered to his skull in tiny curlicues. Except for the dark bruises under his eyes, his skin was as white as the sheet that covered him. It looked like someone had smudged his face with soot from a campfire. His arms and legs looked like sun-bleached sticks with tiny blue lines under the skin, but it was his throat that caught and held Jeff’s attention.

That night and years later Jeff tried hard to convince himself it had just been a shadow cast by the police lights … or maybe some water weeds still clung to his skin because it was obvious Jimmy had been pulled from the lake.

Whatever the cause, there was a dark slash that angled across Jimmy’s throat just below his jaw line.

“Come on, kid,” one of the volunteer firemen said. “Get the hell outta here.”

The man didn’t sound all that angry, and when Jeff looked at him, there was an expression of sadness in his eyes.

“He …” Jeff started to say, but he had to stop and take a watery breath. “He was one of my friends.”

There was no way he could absorb what he was seeing, but one of the men quickly covered up Jimmy’s body again, and they stepped up onto the dock.

Taking Jeff gently by the arm, the volunteer fireman led him up from the beach. The feeling of abandoning his friend overwhelmed Jeff. All he could think was, he couldn’t let them do this. He had to stop them from taking Jimmy away. They shouldn’t be putting him on that ambulance boat and leaving. He and Jimmy were best friends.

They were B.F.F.

He should stay with him so Jimmy—who always got scared when Mark told them a scary story at night—wouldn’t be alone.

“There’s nothing more you can do, son,” the man said, his voice low and comforting.

Jeff knew he was right, but he couldn’t stop stammering, “But he’s my best … he’s my best—” until—finally—his voice choked off.

A heavy wave of darkness spread across his sight as he looked up at the sky. High overhead, the first few stars glittered. A crescent moon shined down on the beach, its reflection rippling like white ribbons in the dark water. The pine trees were all leaning inward. The dark slashes of branches looked like widening cracks in the sky. Jeff was afraid that—any second now—pieces of the sky were going to break off and come crashing down on him.

“You okay there kid?” the man beside him asked. His hand rested lightly on Jeff’s shoulder, but his voice seemed to be coming from someplace far, far away.

Jeff turned and looked at him, but it felt as though his head didn’t stop moving. It kept turning, spinning around on his neck like a child’s top. The world became a kaleidoscope of flashing blue light, smeared faces, dark figures of people moving around him, and tall, black trees that writhed like snakes around him. Shimmering pools of bright yellow and white light dazzled his vision. And then, with a loud whooshing roar, everything went black.

* * *

Some time later—he had no idea when—Jeff regained consciousness.

He was lying on something soft, but he knew it wasn’t his bunk in the tent or his bed back at home. When his vision cleared a bit, he found himself looking up at Mr. Farnham’s face. He was bending over him with an expression of genuine concern.

“Hello there,” Farnham said in a whisper. “How are you feeling?”

Jeff licked his lips to answer but couldn’t. His mouth was dry, and when he tried to speak, the only sound that came out was a strangled croak.

“Would you like a sip of water?”

This was a woman’s voice, and Jeff finally realized he was in the camp infirmary. Mrs. Stott, the camp nurse, appeared at the bedside and held a glass with a straw up to his mouth. Jeff pursed his lips and sucked, amazed at how refreshing the tiny sip of water was on his parched throat.

“Whoa. Not too much,” Mrs. Stott said. She slipped the straw out of his mouth before he could protest.

“Wha—what happened?” Jeff asked.

“You fainted,” Farnham said. For an instant, his expression hardened, but then he sighed and rubbed his forehead, wincing as though suffering some deep, internal pain.

“You know,” Farnham continued, “you shouldn’t have gone out there. I was hoping the police would take care of things so you campers wouldn’t have to see what was going on.”

“What was going on?” Jeff asked. He was surprised that he would actually challenge an adult—the camp director, no less. “What happened to Jimmy?”

Mr. Farnham looked away and shook his head slowly from side to side.

“That’s up to the authorities to determine,” he said. “My responsibility is to protect my campers.”

Protect us like you did Jimmy? Jeff wanted to ask, but he remained silent. It frightened him to see the obvious confusion and hurt in Mr. Farnham’s expression.

“I have a lot of phone calls to make tonight and tomorrow so you boys can go home.” Farnham paused and took a breath. When swallowed, his throat made a funny gulping sound. “This has been a terrible, a terrible thing, but we can all pull together and get through it. Right?”

Not entirely sure why Mr. Farnham needed his reassurance, Jeff nodded slightly. The slight motion sent a blaze of pain through his neck.

“Mrs. Stott will take good care of you, Jeff. I have a lot of things to attend to.” Farnham reached down and patted Jeff on the shoulder before turning to leave.

Raising himself up and supporting himself on his elbows, Jeff watched Farnham walk out of the infirmary. The spring on the screen door made a loud twang as it stretched out and then pulled the door back, slamming it shut with a bang as loud as a gun.

Somehow—although he hadn’t been there to see or hear it—Jeff associated that sound with the slamming of Jimmy Foster’s coffin lid as it locked away one of his best friends in total, eternal darkness.

With these and other disturbing thoughts in his mind, Jeff closed his eyes and let out a long, slow moan. Falling back onto the bed, he settled his head on the pillow. The single clearest thought he had was—

There … at last … I finally saw a real dead person.