Susan Wiggs - Summer at Willow Lake

Summer 1993

I t was Connor Daviss third year at camp, and he knew it would be his last. For one thing, he was going into eighth grade next year and after that was high school, and his mom and Mel always said guys in high school got jobs, period. For another thing, he didnt know what in holy hell to do about his dad, and coming here each summer, watching Terry Davis stagger and stumble through his days, the laughingstock of the camp, made Connor feel pissed off at the world.

Living with Mel and his mom pissed him off, too, but it was different with his dad. Because here was the saddest, sickest thing of all. Connor loved his dad. Terry Davis was a good man with a bad problem, and Connor just didnt know how the hell to fix things for him.

What the fuck, he thought. Its my last summer at Camp Kioga. Im going to make the most of it. He made a mental list of things he wanted to do. Win the quadrathalon. Go rock climbing at the Shawangunks. Do the wilderness-survival trek, where you had to spend two days on your own with nothing but a compass. Maybe take on Tarik in a chess tournament. Get his ear pierced, just to tick off his stepdad. Kiss a girl and feel her up. Maybe even get to third base or score a home run.

Yeah, he wanted to do all that and more. When school started in the fall and he had to write the requisite How I Spent My Summer Vacation, he wanted it to sound so cool, his teacher would think he was making it up.

On the way to the dining hall, he saw Mr. Bellamy, the camp dean and owner, an older guy with a craggy face and a voice like Lawrence Olivier in those old black-and-white movies.

Hello, sir, he said, squaring his shoulders and holding out his hand. Connor Davis.

Of course, Davis. I remember you well. How are you, son?

Excellent, sir. What the hell else would he say? That his life was shit, that he still missed his baby brother every day, that he hated his stepfather, hated living in a trailer park in frigging Buffalo? His mother, who had spent his entire childhood dreaming of a career onstage, had taught him to be a good faker, so he pasted on a grin. Its good to be back, Mr. Bellamy. I really want to thank you and Mrs. Bellamy for letting me come.

Nonsense, son, Jane and I consider it a privilege to have you here.

Yeah, right. Whatever.

Well, anyway. Im real grateful. He wished there was some way to show the Bellamys his appreciation. He couldnt think of a thing, though. These people had everything. There was all that Bellamy-family money. And they had the camp, this amazing place in the wilderness where you could stand on a mountaintop and touch the stars. And they had each other, and a bunch of grandchildren who were nuts about them, and they had a perfect, sweet life. There wasnt a thing Connor Davis could offer them.

The first nights supper was always a feast, and this year was no exception. Connor sat at a long table with his cabinmates, a loud gang of guys in all shapes and sizes. They consumed huge amounts of something called beef Wellington, guzzled big pitchers of milk. Even kids who didnt normally like vegetables went for the steamed broccoli and tossed salad at camp. For dessert, they had the renowned berry pies from the Sky River Bakery.

Didja see the hottie who drives the bread truck? asked Alex Dunbar, who occupied the bunk under Connor.

Connor shook his head. From his perspective, pretty much everyone with an X chromosome was a hottie. Lately, he had this almost feverish sex drive, one that made him feel like a maniac inside.

Shes this high-school girl, looks just like Wynona Ryder. Dunbar reached for the big bowl of buttered potatoes. Her names Jenny Majesky, I found out that much. Now all I have to do is find out how to get her to

Hey, Dunbar. Their counselor, Rourke McKnight, propped his foot on the bench between Dunbar and Connor. Word to the wise.

Yeah? Whats that? Dunbar tried to act cool, but Connor knew he was intimidated by McKnight. Everyone in Fort Niagara Cabin was. Though just out of high school, McKnight had this hard edge, a scary side that might or might not be a put-on. None of the guys in Niagara wanted to get on his bad side.

Dont finish that thought, McKnight said. Not about Miss Majesky or anyone else of the female persuasion. Got it?

Sure, Dunbar said, glowering. Got it.

Good.

When McKnight was gone, Dunbar snickered. Hes probably doing her himself.

He hears you talking like that, said Cramer, who sat across the table, hell do you, and it wont be pretty.

The stupid joshing and joking started up again, but Connor wasnt listening. When it came to his dad, he had this weird sixth sense. He felt his scalp prickle, felt something like a cool shadow sweep over him. Then he heard it. The crash of breaking glass.

Without asking to be excused, he flung his napkin on the table and bolted for the door. Sure enough, there was his father in the foyer, standing there looking totally bewildered at a glass ceiling fixture, which now lay shattered at the base of a stepladder.

Dad, you all right? Connor murmured, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

Justa little blood, Terry Davis said, swaying ever so slightly on his feet as he studied the back of his hand. All I was doing was changing the dadgum lightbulb.

Connors heart sank. He was such an idiot. Every year he hoped this wouldnt happen, but every year it did. His father smelled like a malt-liquor brewery, and the worst part of it was, he tried to pretend everything was fine.

Inevitably, the crash had brought curious onlookers. Most of them didnt know Connor and Terry Davis were related. Terry always told Connor not to advertise that fact, but it made Connor feel totally weird to pretend.

Hey, how many drunks does it take to change a lightbulb? some kid asked. One to pour the martinis, and another to read him the directions in twelve steps.

Connor cringed inwardly, but didnt let it show as he leveled a deadly glare at the kid. He knew it was deadly because hed spent all his middle-school years perfecting it. Often it was his only defense. Back off, he said.

Whats it to you? the kid challenged.

Yeah, another kid said, whats your problem?

Go sit down. The order came from Rourke McKnight, who appeared in the doorway, drawing himself up to his full height, well over six feet. His appearance caused the kids to scatter. Ill clean this up.

No, wait, Terry Davis protested, I gotta change that lightbulb. I gotta

Hey, Mr. Davis, thats a pretty bad cut. Let me go with you to the infirmary and well clean it up. Out of nowhere, Lolly Bellamy showed up. Earlier in the day, Connor had barely had time to say hi to her, but hed nodded at her from across the room. She was the last person in the world he pictured himself being friends with, but he was glad to see her. Over the past couple of summers, theyd become friends, sort of. He liked her because she was funny and smart and genuine. And because she was the kind of person to take his dad by the arm and lead him out the door and to the infirmary, talking the whole time, calmly averting disaster.

Humbled by her simple act of kindness, and too grateful for words, he followed them into the pristine office, which had a well-stocked medical cabinet and four cots, made up with crisp white sheets. Lollys manner was brisk as she turned on the tap. Just hold your hand under that, Mr. Davis. We need to make sure theres no glass in the cut.

Yeah, said Connors dad. You bet.

Connor knew she was all but bathed in the brewery smell, but she didnt flinch as she cleaned the wound, sprayed antiseptic on it and applied a neat bandage.

I surely thank you, Terry said. Youre a reglar Florence Nightingale.

Lolly beamed at him. Yep, thats me.

While she put away the supplies, Connor said, Listen, Dad, why dont you go on home. You want me to help you?