how I’d screamed, and how they’d all laughed. “It’s okay, Dad. Everyone’s okay.”
“You know, your mother and I are very proud of you, Jamie. Your granddad always used to tell me that the wilderness really made a man out of a boy. I guess it’s sort of like that for you here, isn’t it. You’re really growing up.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Jamie? There’s not something you’re not telling me, is there? Because you can tell me anything, you know.”
I forced a smile at him. Even to me it seemed the smile didn’t quite make it to my eyes. But I wanted the conversation to be over, and I didn’t want my father to be disappointed in me. “No, Dad. Really. It’s fine.” I swallowed the thickness in my voice and took a deep breath. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Would you buy me a mint Aero bar at the tuck shop?”
My father seemed relieved by the innocuousness of the request. “Of course, Jamie.” He seemed as relieved as I was to bring this conversation to a close, though I wasn’t sure if it was because he suspected more of what was going on than he let on, and that the prospect of dealing with it was too daunting. If so, then my fantasy of him withdrawing me from Camp Manitou if I asked him to really was just a pipe dream. And I didn’t want to know that. It was safer not knowing. “Anything else?”
“Dad, would it be okay if we bought some for my cabin-mates?”
It was a sudden, ludicrous burst of inspiration, the notion that chocolate bars might be enough payola to buy, if not the friendship of my cabin-mates—I’d gladly settle for their indifference at that point—at least a reprieve from their bullying. And, as it turned out, it would, for a few hours that evening anyway.
“Of course, son. I’m glad to see you thinking of your buddies.”
Then we walked down the hill to where my mother was standing impatiently next to the Mercedes-Benz Estate station wagon she’d insisted my father drive, even though he’d said over and over that he couldn’t afford it. My mother didn’t look much like she was enjoying Camp Manitou, either.
In any case, it had all come to an end a week and a half later, the day the busses rolled up the gravel drive to the chapel in preparation for the end-of-camp exodus that would to take the boys home and take me to freedom.
But not before I’d found the painted turtle.
It had been sunning itself all that morning on a rock jutting out of the surface of an algae-encrusted, shallow marsh up the road from the chapel—the swampy water bracketed by pussy willows, lily pads, the dead, bleached skeletons of trees, and rotted stumps. With boys milling nearby and shouts ricocheting across the water, it was hard to believe no one else had seen the turtle, which was so beautiful and perfect that I momentarily lost my breath. It was a midland painted turtle, a specific subspecies of painted turtle with a gleaming olive-coloured carapace streaked with bands of red and orange along the sides. Its plastron was yellow, with butterfly-shaped markings along the midline. Its little head and neck, arched as though it were scenting the air, was streaked with thin bands of crimson and gold. The creature shone like a perfect emerald and ruby brooch in the sunlight.
I knew I had to have it. I had to
own
it.
I told myself that I wanted the turtle to be my
friend
, but the truth was I couldn’t bear the thought of it not belonging to me. So much of the cruelty of childhood is thoughtless, in the literal sense of the word. When I waded into the swamp and plucked the turtle off the rock, I had no sense that I was kidnapping it, of taking it out of its natural world—indeed, its home—and forcing it into my own.
Terrified, it moved its tiny limbs in frantic protest, and then withdrew its head into its shell. It defecated into the palm of my hand. I wiped my hand on the leg of my khaki shorts, for the first time all summer not caring about how
“You know, your mother and I are very proud of you, Jamie. Your granddad always used to tell me that the wilderness really made a man out of a boy. I guess it’s sort of like that for you here, isn’t it. You’re really growing up.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Jamie? There’s not something you’re not telling me, is there? Because you can tell me anything, you know.”
I forced a smile at him. Even to me it seemed the smile didn’t quite make it to my eyes. But I wanted the conversation to be over, and I didn’t want my father to be disappointed in me. “No, Dad. Really. It’s fine.” I swallowed the thickness in my voice and took a deep breath. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Would you buy me a mint Aero bar at the tuck shop?”
My father seemed relieved by the innocuousness of the request. “Of course, Jamie.” He seemed as relieved as I was to bring this conversation to a close, though I wasn’t sure if it was because he suspected more of what was going on than he let on, and that the prospect of dealing with it was too daunting. If so, then my fantasy of him withdrawing me from Camp Manitou if I asked him to really was just a pipe dream. And I didn’t want to know that. It was safer not knowing. “Anything else?”
“Dad, would it be okay if we bought some for my cabin-mates?”
It was a sudden, ludicrous burst of inspiration, the notion that chocolate bars might be enough payola to buy, if not the friendship of my cabin-mates—I’d gladly settle for their indifference at that point—at least a reprieve from their bullying. And, as it turned out, it would, for a few hours that evening anyway.
“Of course, son. I’m glad to see you thinking of your buddies.”
Then we walked down the hill to where my mother was standing impatiently next to the Mercedes-Benz Estate station wagon she’d insisted my father drive, even though he’d said over and over that he couldn’t afford it. My mother didn’t look much like she was enjoying Camp Manitou, either.
In any case, it had all come to an end a week and a half later, the day the busses rolled up the gravel drive to the chapel in preparation for the end-of-camp exodus that would to take the boys home and take me to freedom.
But not before I’d found the painted turtle.
It had been sunning itself all that morning on a rock jutting out of the surface of an algae-encrusted, shallow marsh up the road from the chapel—the swampy water bracketed by pussy willows, lily pads, the dead, bleached skeletons of trees, and rotted stumps. With boys milling nearby and shouts ricocheting across the water, it was hard to believe no one else had seen the turtle, which was so beautiful and perfect that I momentarily lost my breath. It was a midland painted turtle, a specific subspecies of painted turtle with a gleaming olive-coloured carapace streaked with bands of red and orange along the sides. Its plastron was yellow, with butterfly-shaped markings along the midline. Its little head and neck, arched as though it were scenting the air, was streaked with thin bands of crimson and gold. The creature shone like a perfect emerald and ruby brooch in the sunlight.
I knew I had to have it. I had to
own
it.
I told myself that I wanted the turtle to be my
friend
, but the truth was I couldn’t bear the thought of it not belonging to me. So much of the cruelty of childhood is thoughtless, in the literal sense of the word. When I waded into the swamp and plucked the turtle off the rock, I had no sense that I was kidnapping it, of taking it out of its natural world—indeed, its home—and forcing it into my own.
Terrified, it moved its tiny limbs in frantic protest, and then withdrew its head into its shell. It defecated into the palm of my hand. I wiped my hand on the leg of my khaki shorts, for the first time all summer not caring about how
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