since everyone had to participate, there was no getting around it.
One thing Rourke was good at was putting up with something he didn’t feel like doing. And he sure as hell had endured worse than leading some giggling, sweaty-handed girl around the dance floor, muttering quick-quick, slooow, quick-quick, slooow under his breath in time to the music.
At camp, he met several Bellamys. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bellamy, the owners and directors, seemed kind enough. “Your father’s wilderness-conservation bill means the world to us. Thanks to that bit of legislation, we don’t have to worry about industry closing in on us,” Mrs. Bellamy had said on opening day. “You must be quite proud of him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rourke didn’t know what else to say. Yes, he’s a good public servant but a complete bastard in private —that would go over like a fart in church.
“We’re very glad you’re here,” Mrs. Bellamy went on. “I remember your mother. Julia—Delaney, wasn’t that her maiden name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She was a favorite. So full of fun. She used to play practical jokes all the time, and on talent night, she did a stand-up-comic routine that had us all in stitches.”
Rourke didn’t believe her, but then, one rainy day when outdoor activities were canceled and Joey was gone on a solo expedition, she showed him some of the camp’s treasured photo albums housed in the library. The collection was in the main pavilion, a gigantic timber building from the 1930s. It was the heart of Camp Kioga, housing the dining hall, library, infirmary, the kitchen and camp offices.
And sure enough, there were several snapshots of his mom in the 1970s, hamming it up. She wore a smile Rourke had never seen before. She looked so completely happy that he almost didn’t recognize her.
He thanked Mrs. Bellamy for showing him some of the camp’s history. He lingered in the library until the rain let up, perusing the books, from Hardy Boys mysteries to birding manuals, classics by Thoreau and Washington Irving, and the inevitable collections of ghost stories. Long after the rain stopped, he sat looking through books, trying to imagine a different life for himself. When they were little, he and Joey always talked about joining the army together and traveling the world, but as they grew older, the fantasy dimmed. By the seventh grade, Rourke was already feeling the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, and Joey was now aware of the realities of working-class life.
Rourke wondered what Joey was doing, out on his solo expedition. It was something each boy was expected to do at least once over the summer. You had to gear up and spend an entire night alone on Spruce Island, a small island in the middle of Willow Lake. The head counselor, Greg Bellamy—the younger son of the directors—said, “It’s supposed to build character. And if it scares the shit out of you, at least it’ll keep your bowels open.” You were supposed to make a fire and contemplate deep things, although Rourke suspected Joey was just whacking off, which was pretty much the favorite thing of any guy their age.
The beeping sound of a truck backing up distracted him. He went to the window and saw a boxy white panel van. The sides of the truck were painted with a rushing river and “Sky River Bakery—
Established 1952” in fancy lettering.
Rourke was already a fan of the camp’s kitchen, and the baked goods in particular. The bread and rolls, Danishes, donuts and desserts were incredible.
He was about to turn back to the book collection when he noticed three guys sneaking up on the truck. They were guys from his cabin—Jacobs, Trent and Robson—and he didn’t know them very well, but he knew they were jerks. They tended to pick on weaker kids, which meant they didn’t bother Rourke. In fact, they seemed to think he was one of them, even though he never joined in when they decided to pick on somebody.
At the moment, they
One thing Rourke was good at was putting up with something he didn’t feel like doing. And he sure as hell had endured worse than leading some giggling, sweaty-handed girl around the dance floor, muttering quick-quick, slooow, quick-quick, slooow under his breath in time to the music.
At camp, he met several Bellamys. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bellamy, the owners and directors, seemed kind enough. “Your father’s wilderness-conservation bill means the world to us. Thanks to that bit of legislation, we don’t have to worry about industry closing in on us,” Mrs. Bellamy had said on opening day. “You must be quite proud of him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rourke didn’t know what else to say. Yes, he’s a good public servant but a complete bastard in private —that would go over like a fart in church.
“We’re very glad you’re here,” Mrs. Bellamy went on. “I remember your mother. Julia—Delaney, wasn’t that her maiden name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She was a favorite. So full of fun. She used to play practical jokes all the time, and on talent night, she did a stand-up-comic routine that had us all in stitches.”
Rourke didn’t believe her, but then, one rainy day when outdoor activities were canceled and Joey was gone on a solo expedition, she showed him some of the camp’s treasured photo albums housed in the library. The collection was in the main pavilion, a gigantic timber building from the 1930s. It was the heart of Camp Kioga, housing the dining hall, library, infirmary, the kitchen and camp offices.
And sure enough, there were several snapshots of his mom in the 1970s, hamming it up. She wore a smile Rourke had never seen before. She looked so completely happy that he almost didn’t recognize her.
He thanked Mrs. Bellamy for showing him some of the camp’s history. He lingered in the library until the rain let up, perusing the books, from Hardy Boys mysteries to birding manuals, classics by Thoreau and Washington Irving, and the inevitable collections of ghost stories. Long after the rain stopped, he sat looking through books, trying to imagine a different life for himself. When they were little, he and Joey always talked about joining the army together and traveling the world, but as they grew older, the fantasy dimmed. By the seventh grade, Rourke was already feeling the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, and Joey was now aware of the realities of working-class life.
Rourke wondered what Joey was doing, out on his solo expedition. It was something each boy was expected to do at least once over the summer. You had to gear up and spend an entire night alone on Spruce Island, a small island in the middle of Willow Lake. The head counselor, Greg Bellamy—the younger son of the directors—said, “It’s supposed to build character. And if it scares the shit out of you, at least it’ll keep your bowels open.” You were supposed to make a fire and contemplate deep things, although Rourke suspected Joey was just whacking off, which was pretty much the favorite thing of any guy their age.
The beeping sound of a truck backing up distracted him. He went to the window and saw a boxy white panel van. The sides of the truck were painted with a rushing river and “Sky River Bakery—
Established 1952” in fancy lettering.
Rourke was already a fan of the camp’s kitchen, and the baked goods in particular. The bread and rolls, Danishes, donuts and desserts were incredible.
He was about to turn back to the book collection when he noticed three guys sneaking up on the truck. They were guys from his cabin—Jacobs, Trent and Robson—and he didn’t know them very well, but he knew they were jerks. They tended to pick on weaker kids, which meant they didn’t bother Rourke. In fact, they seemed to think he was one of them, even though he never joined in when they decided to pick on somebody.
At the moment, they
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