other part, where the valley ends, is open land, the trees shrinking to scrubby sumachs and crab apples, a few willows. A river is down there, and the boys who swim in it get rashes and smell like the sludge factory, and like Camp Wanawingo, too, when the wind blows from the south. It’s a spookily quiet camp, I thought that even during my brief stay there. Now, from my tee-pee, the only sound I ever hear is the noon-time shouting of the camp motto,“Yip yap honika wonika! Tip tap eenika si!”—supposedly Huron for “Brave and true are we! First of all the tribes!”
(My father, after I’d told him about the lack of drinking water and how we were forced to weed the vegetable garden, changed the translation to “Slaves and blue are we! Thirsty, dull, deprived!”)
My tee-pee is as far away as you can get from the camp, hidden among all the logs and branches that have landed on the ledge over the years. Boys walk above the ledge and beneath it, oblivious. Only Abel knows I’m here, and the reason I am pretty sure of this is that the ledge is the only place in the ravine he avoids. I’ll see him on the other slope and wish I had something worth calling him over for. One of those gold-eyed toads would do, and it’s not as if there’s a rock within a hundred yards of my tee-pee I haven’t upturned. An Indian artifact, or even a particularly good stone would do.
A body would do.
On a Thursday afternoon toward the end of July, I arrive to find a man lying face down in front of my tee-pee.
He’s big and old, or at least not young. Grimy green overalls, no shirt underneath, the soles of his shoes worn through, but his white hair is thick and silky.
“Hello?” I say.
There’s a tattoo on the flab of his upper right arm. It’s a wreath of snakes encircling a word I can’t see properly from where I am, so I tiptoe around to his other side. “Greta,” I read. I step back, shocked. No, it can’t be. Can it? But even if it’s another Greta, the name is German. “A spy,” I think,“a spy disguised as a hobo.” Thoroughly frightened now, I look across the valley for Abel.
I look back at the man.
I can’t tell whether or not he’s breathing. His right hand is clenched. Keeping my eyes on that hand (he might have a grenade), I pick up a stick and touch it to his calf. “Wake up,” I say. I touch it to the sole of his bare, blackened foot. “Wake up.” My voice seems to profane an immense emptiness. I move to his head and bend down but am driven up again by his foul smell. “Mister,” I call testingly. Then, louder,“Mister! Wake up!”
A large black insect wriggles out of the hair by his ear.
I scream.
From him, not a twitch.
I run screaming to the end of the ledge, leap off and run down the hill.
Before I reach the bottom, Abel bursts through the trees. His terrorized face tells me how blood-curdling my screams must have been.
“There’s a man.” I point. “Up there. A dead man.”
“Dead?”
“He isn’t breathing. He’s just lying there. He won’t move.”
Abel looks up at the ledge.
“I poked him with a stick.”
“Is he bleeding?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Abel continues to look up at the ledge. A strained composure overtakes his features. He seems to have a thought, an idea. Watching him, I calm down. “Should we go call the police?”
“Not yet.” He scratches his arm. He’s wearing a red-and-yellow-striped T-shirt and new blue jeans he’s meant to grow into, the legs rolled up into wide cuffs. His belt is a piece of rope. Clipped to the belt loop by his right hand are a magnifying glass and a jackknife. “Okay,” he says, hiking up his jeans. He starts climbing.
I scramble after him. “He’s an old man. He’s really filthy. He has a tattoo—” I stop myself. Abel will see the tattoo.
He gains the ledge. By the time I get there, he’s standing over the body. I go and stand next to him. He’s looking at the tattoo.
I say,“Greta’s your
(My father, after I’d told him about the lack of drinking water and how we were forced to weed the vegetable garden, changed the translation to “Slaves and blue are we! Thirsty, dull, deprived!”)
My tee-pee is as far away as you can get from the camp, hidden among all the logs and branches that have landed on the ledge over the years. Boys walk above the ledge and beneath it, oblivious. Only Abel knows I’m here, and the reason I am pretty sure of this is that the ledge is the only place in the ravine he avoids. I’ll see him on the other slope and wish I had something worth calling him over for. One of those gold-eyed toads would do, and it’s not as if there’s a rock within a hundred yards of my tee-pee I haven’t upturned. An Indian artifact, or even a particularly good stone would do.
A body would do.
On a Thursday afternoon toward the end of July, I arrive to find a man lying face down in front of my tee-pee.
He’s big and old, or at least not young. Grimy green overalls, no shirt underneath, the soles of his shoes worn through, but his white hair is thick and silky.
“Hello?” I say.
There’s a tattoo on the flab of his upper right arm. It’s a wreath of snakes encircling a word I can’t see properly from where I am, so I tiptoe around to his other side. “Greta,” I read. I step back, shocked. No, it can’t be. Can it? But even if it’s another Greta, the name is German. “A spy,” I think,“a spy disguised as a hobo.” Thoroughly frightened now, I look across the valley for Abel.
I look back at the man.
I can’t tell whether or not he’s breathing. His right hand is clenched. Keeping my eyes on that hand (he might have a grenade), I pick up a stick and touch it to his calf. “Wake up,” I say. I touch it to the sole of his bare, blackened foot. “Wake up.” My voice seems to profane an immense emptiness. I move to his head and bend down but am driven up again by his foul smell. “Mister,” I call testingly. Then, louder,“Mister! Wake up!”
A large black insect wriggles out of the hair by his ear.
I scream.
From him, not a twitch.
I run screaming to the end of the ledge, leap off and run down the hill.
Before I reach the bottom, Abel bursts through the trees. His terrorized face tells me how blood-curdling my screams must have been.
“There’s a man.” I point. “Up there. A dead man.”
“Dead?”
“He isn’t breathing. He’s just lying there. He won’t move.”
Abel looks up at the ledge.
“I poked him with a stick.”
“Is he bleeding?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Abel continues to look up at the ledge. A strained composure overtakes his features. He seems to have a thought, an idea. Watching him, I calm down. “Should we go call the police?”
“Not yet.” He scratches his arm. He’s wearing a red-and-yellow-striped T-shirt and new blue jeans he’s meant to grow into, the legs rolled up into wide cuffs. His belt is a piece of rope. Clipped to the belt loop by his right hand are a magnifying glass and a jackknife. “Okay,” he says, hiking up his jeans. He starts climbing.
I scramble after him. “He’s an old man. He’s really filthy. He has a tattoo—” I stop myself. Abel will see the tattoo.
He gains the ledge. By the time I get there, he’s standing over the body. I go and stand next to him. He’s looking at the tattoo.
I say,“Greta’s your
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