S TOR Y

CHILD'S PLAYBy Alice Munro

Isuppose there was talk in ourhouse, afterwards.

How sad, how awfuL(My mother.)

There should havebeen supervision. Wherewere the Counselors?(My father.)

Just think, it mighthave-it might havebeen- (My mother.)

It wasn't. Just put thatidea out of your head. Itwasn't. (My father.)

It is even possible thatifwe ever passed the yel-low house my mothersaid, "Remember? Re-member you used to beso scared of her? Thepoor thing."

My mother had ahabit of hanging on to-even trea-

suring-the foibles of my

E distant infantile state.

. very year, when you're a child,you become a different person. Gener-ally it's in the fall, when you re-enterschool, take your place in a highergrade, leave behind the muddle andlethargy of the summer vacation. That'swhen you register the change most

twins in rhyme. Bonnie and Connie.Ronald and Donald. And then of

course we-Charleneand I-had matchinghats. Coolie hats, theywere called, wide shal-low cones of wovenstraw with some sort oftie or elastic under thechin. They became fa-miliar later on in thecentury, from televisionshots of the war in Viet-nam. Men on bicyclesriding along a street inSaigon would be wear-ing them, or womenwalking in the roadagainst the backgroundof a bombed village.

It was possible at thattime-I mean the time

when Charlene and I were at camp-to say coolie without a thought of of-fense. Or darkie, or to talk about jew-ing a price down. I was in my teens, Ithink, before I ever related that verbto the noun.

So we had those names and thosehats, and at the first roll call theCounselor-the jolly one we liked,Mavis, though we didn't like her aswell as the pretty one, Pauline-pointed at us and called out, "Hey,Twins," and went on calling outother names before we had time todeny it.

sharply. Afterwards you are not sure ofthe month or year, but the changes go

Alice Munro is the author of numerous sto-ry collections, including, most recently, TheView from Castle Rock (Knopf) .

Illustration by Jennifer Renninger

on, just the same. For a long while thepast drops away from you easily and, itwould seem, automatically, properly.Its scenes don't vanish so much as be-come irrelevant. And then there's aswitchback, what's been all over anddone with sprouting up fresh, wantingattention, even wanting you to dosomething about it, though it's plain

there is not on this earth

M a thing to be done.

arlene and Charlene. Peoplethought we must be twins. There wasa fashion in those days for naming

STORY 73

Even before that we must have no-ticed the hats and approved of eachother. Otherwise one or both of uswould have pulled off those brand-newarticles and been ready to shove themunder our cots, declaring that ourmothers had made us wear them andwe hated them, and so on.

I may have approved of Charlene,but I was not sure how to make friendswith her. Girls nine or ten years old-that was the general range of this crop,though there were a few a bit older-do not pick friends or pair off as easi-ly as girls do at six or seven. I simplyfollowed some other girls from mytown-none of them my particularfriends-to one of the cabins wherethere were some unclaimed cots, anddumped my things on top of the brownblanket. Then I heard a voice behindme say, "Could I please be next tomytwin sister?"

It was Charlene, speaking to some-body I didn't know. The dormitorycabin held perhaps two dozen girls.The girl she had spoken to said, "Sure,"and moved along.

Charlene had used a special voice.Ingratiating, teasing, self-mocking, andwith a seductive merriment in it, likea trill of bells. It was evident right awaythat she had more confidence than Idid. And not simply confidence thatthe other girl would move and not saysturdily, "I got here first." Or-if shewas a roughly brought up sort of girl(and some of them were that, havingtheir way paid by the Lions Club orthe Church and not by their parents)she might have said, "Go poop yourpants, I'm not moving." No. Charlenehad confidence that anybody wouldwant to do as she asked, not just agreeto do it. With me too she had taken achance, for could I not have said, "Idon't want to be twins," and turnedback to sort my things? But of course Ididn't. I felt flattered, as she had ex-pected, and I watched her dump out thecontents of her suitcase with such an airof celebration that some things fell onthe floor.

All I could think of to say was, "Yougot a tan already."

"I always tan easy," she said.The first of our differences. We ap-

plied ourselves to learning them. Shetanned, I freckled. We both had brownhair but hers was darker. Hers was wavy,

74 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / FEBRUARY 2007

mine bushy. I was half an inch taller,she had thicker wrists and ankles. Hereyes had more green in them, minemore blue. We did not grow tired of in-specting and tabulating even the molesor notable freckles on our backs, lengthof our second toes (mine longer thanthe first toe, hers shorter). Or of re-counting all the illnesses or accidentsthat had befallen us so far, as well as therepairs or removals performed on ourbodies. Both of us had our tonsils out-a usual precaution in those days-andboth of us had had measles and whoop-ing cough but not mumps. I had had aneyetooth pulled because it was growingin over my other teeth, and she had athumbnail with an imperfect half-moonbecause her thumb had been slammedunder a window.

And once we had the peculiaritiesand history of our bodies in place wewent on to the stories-the dramas ornear-dramas or distinctions-of ourfamilies. She was the youngest andonly girl in her family and I was anonly child. I had an aunt who had diedof polio in high school and she-s-Char-lene-had an older brother who was inthe Navy. For it was wartime, and at thecampfire sing-song we would choose"There'll Always Be an England" and"Hearts of Oak," and "Rule Britannia,"and sometimes "The Maple Leaf For-ever." Bombing raids and battles andsinking ships were the constant, thoughdistant, backdrop of our lives.

And once in a while there was anear strike, frightening but solemn andexhilarating, as when a boy from ourtown or our street would be killed, andthe house where he had lived withouthaving any special wreath or blackdrapery on it seemed nevertheless tohave a special weight inside it, a destinyfulfilled and dragging it down. Thoughthere was nothing special inside it at all,maybe just a car that didn't belongthere parked at the curb, showing thatsome relatives or a minister had cometo sit with the bereaved family.

One of the camp Counselors hadlost her fiance in the war and wore hiswatch-we believed it was his watch-pinned to her blouse. We would like tohave felt for her a mournful interestand concern, but she was sharp-voicedand bossy and she even had an un-pleasant name. Arva.

The other backdrop of our lives,

which was supposed to be emphasizedat camp, was religion. But since theUnited Church of Canada was offi-cially in charge there was not so muchharping on that subject as there wouldhave been with the Baptists or theBible Christians, or so much formalacknowledgment as the RomanCatholics or even the Anglicans wouldhave provided. Most of us had parentswho belonged to the United Church(though some of the girls who werehaving their way paid for them mightnot have belonged to any church atall), and being used to its hearty sec-ular style, we did not even realize thatwe were getting off easily with justevening prayers and grace sung atmeals and the half-hour special talk-it was called a chat-after breakfast.Even the Chat was relatively free of ref-erences to God or Jesus and was moreabout honesty and loving-kindness andclean thoughts in our daily lives, andpromising never to drink or smokewhen we grew up. Nobody had anyobjection to this sort of thing or triedto get out of attending, because it waswhat we were used to and because itwas pleasant to sit on the beach in thewarming sun and a little too cold yet

for us to long to jump into

G the water.

rown-up women do the samesort of thing that Charlene and I did.Not the counting the moles on eachother's backs and comparing toelengths, maybe. But when they meetand feel a particular sympathy with eachother they also feel a need to set out theimportant information, the big eventswhether public or secret, and then goahead to fill in all the blanks between.If they feel this warmth and eagernessit is quite impossible for them to boreeach other. They will laugh at the verytriviality and silliness of what they'retelling, or at the revelation of some ap-palling selfishness, deception, mean-ness, sheer badness. There has to begreat trust of course, but that trust canbe established at once, in an instant.

I've observed this. It's supposed tohave begun in those long periods of sit-ting around the campfire stirring themanioc porridge or whatever, whilethe men were out in the bush deprivedof conversation because it would warnoff the wild animals. (I am an an-

thropologist by training, though arather slack one.) I've observed butnever taken part in these female ex-changes. Not truly. Sometimes I'vepretended because it seemed to be re-quired, but the woman I was supposedto be making friends with always gotwind of my pretense and became con-fused and cautious.As a rule, I've felt less wary with

men. They don't expect such transac-tions and are seldom really interested.This intimacy I'm talking about-

with women-is not erotic, or pre-erotic. I've experienced that as well,before puberty. Then too there wouldbe confidences, probably lies, maybeleading to games. A certain hot tem-porary excitement, with or withoutgenital teasing. Followed by ill-feeling,denial, disgust.Charlene did tell me about her

brother, but with true repugnance. Thiswas the brother now in the Navy. Shewent into his room looking for her catand there he was doing it to his girl-friend. They never knew she saw them.She said they slapped, as he went up

and down.You mean they slapped on the bed,

I said.No, she said. His thing slapped

when it was going in and out. It wassickening.And his bare white bum had pim-

ples on it. Sickening.

U I told her about Vema.

p until the time I was sevenyears old my parents had lived in whatwas called a double house. The wordduplex was perhaps not in use at thattime, and anyway the house was notevenly divided. Vema's grandmotherrented the rooms at the back and werented the rooms at the front. Thehouse was tall and bare and ugly,painted yellow. The town we lived inwas too small to have residential di-visions that amounted to anything,but I suppose that as far as there weredivisions, that house was right on theboundary between decent and fairly di-lapidated. I am speaking of the waythings were just before the SecondWorld War, at the end of the De-pression. (That word, I believe, wasunknown to us.)My father, being a teacher, had a

regular job but little money. The street

petered out beyond us between thehouses of those who had neither. Ver-na's grandmother must have had a lit-tle money because she spoke con-temptuously of people who were OnRelief. I believe my mother arguedwith her, unsuccessfully, that it wasNot Their Fault. The two women werenot particular friends, but they werecordial about clothesline arrangements.The grandmother's name was Mrs.

Home. A man came to see her occa-sionally. My mother spoke of him asMrs. Home's friend.You are not to speak to Mrs.

Home's friend.In fact I was not even allowed to

play outside when he came, so therewas not much chance of my speakingto him. I don't even remember what helooked like, though I remember his car,which was dark blue, a Ford V-8. I tooka special interest in cars, probably be-cause we didn't have one.Then Vema came.Mrs. Home spoke of her as her

granddaughter and there is no reasonto suppose that not to be true, butthere was never any sign of a con-necting generation. I don't know ifMrs. Home went away and came backwith her, or if she was delivered by thefriend with the V-8. She appeared inthe summer before I was to start school.I can't remember her telling me hername-she was not communicativein the ordinary way and I don't be-lieve I would have asked her. Fromthe very beginning I had an aversionto her unlike anything I had felt up tothat time for any other person. I saidthat I hated her, and my mother said,How can you, what has she ever doneto you?The poor thing.Children use that word hate to mean

various things. It may mean that theyare frightened. Not that they feel indanger of being attacked-the way Idid, for instance, of certain big boyson bicycles who liked to cut in front ofyou, yelling fearsomely, as you walkedon the sidewalk. It is not physical harmthat is feared-or that I feared in Ver-na's case-so much as some spell, ordark intention. It is a feeling you canhave when you are very young evenabout certain house faces, or treetrunks, or very much about moldy cel-lars or deep closets.

STORY 75

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She was a good deal taller than Iwas and I don't know how much old-er-two years, three years? She wasskinny, indeed so narrowly built andwith such a small head that she mademe think of a snake. Fine black hair layflat on this head, and fell over her fore-head. The skin of her face seemed asdull to me as the flap of our old canvastent, and her cheeks puffed out theway the flap elf that tent puffed in awind. Her eyes were always squinting.

But I believe there was nothing re-markably unpleasant about her looks,as other people saw her. Indeed mymother spoke of her as pretty, or almostpretty (as in, isn't it too bad, she couldbe pretty). Nothing to object to either,as far as my mother could see, in herbehavior. She is young for her age. Aroundabout and inadequate way of say-ing that Vema had not learned to reador write or skip or play ball, and thather voice was hoarse and unrnodulat-ed, her words oddly separated, as ifthey were chunks of language caughtin her throat.

Her way of interfering with me,spoiling my solitary games, was thatof an older not a younger girL But of anolder girl who had no skill or rights,nothing but a strenuous determina-tion and an inability to understandthat she wasn't wanted.

Children of course are monstrouslyconventional, repelled at once by what-ever is off-center, out-of-whack, un-manageable. And being an only childI had been coddled a good deal (alsoscolded). I was awkward, precocious,timid, full of my private rituals andaversions. I hated even the celluloidbarrette that kept slipping out of Ver-na's hair, and the peppermints withred or green stripes on them that shekept offering to me. In fact she didmore than offer-she would try tocatch me and push these candies intomy mouth, chuckling all the time in herdisconnected way. I dislike peppermintflavoring to this day. And the nameVerna-I dislike that. It doesn't soundlike spring to me, or like green grass orgarlands of flowers or girls in flimsydresses. It sounds more like a trail of ob-stinate peppermint, green slime.

I didn't believe my mother reallyliked Verna either. But because ofsome hypocrisy in her nature, as I sawit, because of a decision she had made,

76 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / FEBRUARY 2007

as it seemed, to spite me, she pre-tended to be sorry for her. She toldme to be kind. At first she said thatVema would not be staying long andat the end of the summer holidayswould go back to wherever she hadbeen before. Then, when it becameclear that there was nowhere for Ver-na to go back to, the placating messagewas that we ourselves would be mov-,ing soon. I had only to be kind for a lit-de while longer. (As a matter of factit was a whole year before we moved.)Finally, out of patience, she said thatI was a disappointment to her and thatshe would never have thought I had somean a nature.

"How can you blame a person forthe way she was born? How is ither fault?"

That made no sense to me. If I hadbeen more skilled at arguing I mighthave said that I didn't blame Vema, Ijust did not want her to come nearme. But I certainly did blame her. Idid not question that it was somehowher fault. And in this, whatever mymother might say, I was in tune tosome degree with an unspoken verdictof the time and place I lived in. Evengrown-ups smiled in a certain way,there was some irrepressible gratifica-tion and taken-for-granted superioritythat I could see, in the way they men-tioned people who were simple, or afew bricks short of a load. And I be-

lieved my mother must be

I really like this, underneath.

started school. Verna startedschool. She was put into a specialclass in a special building in a comerof the school grounds. This was actu-ally the original school building inthe town, but nobody had any timefor local history then, and a few yearslater it was pulled down. There was afenced-off corner in which pupilshoused in that building spent recess.They went to school a half hour laterthan we did in the morning and gotout a half hour earlier in the after-noon. Nobody was supposed to harassthem at recess, but since they usuallyhung on the fence watching whatev-er went on in the regular schoolgrounds there would be occasionswhen there was a rush, a whoopingand brandishing of sticks, to scarethem. I never went near that corner,

hardly ever saw Verna. It was athome I still had to deal with her.

First she would stand at the comerof the yellow house, watching me, andI would pretend that I didn't know shewas there. Then she would wanderinto the front yard, taking up a positionon the front steps of the part of thehouse that was mine. If I wanted togo inside to the bathroom, or becauseI was cold, I would have to go so closeas to touch her and to risk her touch-ingme.

She could stay in one place longerthan anybody I ever knew, staring atjust one thing. Usually me.

I had a swing hung from a mapletree, so that I either faced the house orthe street. That is, I either had to faceher or to know that she was staring atmy back, and might come up to giveme a push. After a while she woulddecide to do that. She always pushedme crooked, but that was not the worstthing. The worst was that her fingershad pressed my back. Through mycoat, through my other clothing, herfingers like so many cold snouts.

Another activity of mine was tobuild a leaf house. That is, I raked upand carried armloads of leaves fallenfrom the maple tree that held theswing, and I dumped and arrangedthese leaves into a house plan. Herewas the living room, here was thekitchen, here was a big soft pile forthe bed in the bedroom, and so on. Ihad not invented this occupation-leaf houses of a more expansive sortwere laid out, and even in a way fur-nished, every recess in the girls' play-ground at school, until the janitor fi-nally raked up all- the leaves andburned them.

At first Vema just watched what Iwas doing, with her squinty-eyed ex-pression of what seemed to me superi-or (how could she think herself supe-rior?) puzzlement. Then the time camewhen she moved closer, lifted an arm-ful of leaves that dripped all over be-cause of her uncertainty or clumsiness.And these came not from the pile ofspare leaves but from the very wall ofmy house. She picked them up andcarried them a short distance and letthem fall-dumped them, in the mid-dle of one of my tidy rooms.

I yelled at her to stop, but she bentto pick up her scattered load again,

and was unable to hang on to them, soshe just flung them about and whenthey were all on the ground began tokick them foolishly here and there. Iwas still yelling at her to stop, but thishad no effect, or else she took it for en-couragement. So I lowered my headand ran at her and bunted her in thestomach. I was not wearing a cap, sothe hairs of my head came in contactwith the woolly coat or jacket she hadon, and it seemed to me that I hadactually-touched bristling hairs on theskin of a gross hard belly. I ran hol-lering with complaint up the steps ofthe house, and when my mother heardthe story she further maddened me bysaying, "She only wants to play. Shedoesn't know how to play."

By the next fall we were in the bun-galow and I never had to go past theyellow house that reminded me somuch of Vema, as if it had positivelytaken on her narrow slyness, herthreatening squint. The yellow paintseemed to be the very color of insult,and the front door, being off-center,added a touch of deformity. The bun-galow was only three blocks away fromthat house, close to the school. Butmy idea of the town's size and com-plexity was still such that it seemed Iwas escaping Vema altogether. I real-ized that this was not true, not alto-gether true, when a schoolmate and Icame face to face with her one day onthe main street. We must have beensent on some errand by one of ourmothers. I did not look up but I be-lieved I heard a chuckle of greeting orrecognition as we passed.

The other girl said a horrifying thingto me.

She said, "I used to think that wasyour sister."

"What?""Well I knew you lived in the

same house, so I thought you mustbe related. Like cousins, anyway.

Aren't you? Cousins?""No."

he old building where the SpecialClasses had been held was condemned,and its pupils were transferred to theBible Chapel, now rented on week-days by the town. The Bible Chapelhappened to be across the street andaround a comer from the bungalowwhere my mother and father and I now

lived. There were a couple of ways thatVerna could have walked to schoolbut the way she chose was past ourhouse. And our house was only a fewfeet from the sidewalk, so this meantthat her shadow could practically fallacross our steps. If she wished she couldkick pebbles onto our grass, and unlesswe kept the blinds down she couldpeer into our hall and front room.

The hours of the Special Classeshad been changed to coincide withordinary school hours, at least in themorning-they still went home earli-er in the afternoon. Once they were inthe Bible Chapel it must have beenfelt that there was no need to keepthem free of the rest of us on the wayto school. This meant, now, that I hada chance of running into Vema on thesidewalk. I would always look in the di-rection from which she might be com-ing, and if I saw her I would duck backinto the house with the excuse that Ihad forgotten something, or that oneof my shoes was rubbing my heel andneeded a plaster, or a ribbon was com-ing loose on my hair. I would neverhave been so foolish now as to mentionVerna and hear my mother say,"What's the problem, what are youafraid of, do you think she's going toeat you?"

What was the problem? Contami-nation, infection? Vema was decentlyclean and healthy. And it was hardlylikely that she was going to attack andpummel me or pull out my hair. But on-ly adults would be so stupid as to believeshe had no power. A power, moreover,that was specifically directed at me. Iwas the one she had her eye on. Or soI believed. As if we had an under-standing between us that could not bedescribed and was not to be disposed of.Something that clings, in the way of

love, though on my side

"'"' T it feltlike hate.

, 'hen I told Charlene about herwe had got into the deeper reaches ofour conversation-that conversationthat seems to have been broken onlywhen we swam or slept. Vema was notso solid an offering, not so vividly re-pulsive as Charlene's brother's pim-pled bum, and I remember saying thatshe was awful in a way that I couldnot describe. But then I did describeher, and my feelings about her, and I

must have done not too bad a job, be-cause one day towards the end of ourtwo-week stay at camp Charlene camerushing into the dining hall at mid-day, her face lit up with horror andstrange delight.

"She's here. She's here. That girl.That awful girl. Vema. She's here."

Lunch was over. We were in theprocess of tidying up, putting our platesand mugs on the kitchen shelf to begrabbed away and washed by the girlson kitchen duty that day. Then wewould line up to go to the Tuck Shop,which opened every day at oneo'clock. Charlene had just run backto the dormitory to get some money.Being rich, with a father who was anundertaker, she was rather careless,keeping money in her pillowcase. Ex-cept when swimming I always hadmine on my person. All of us whocould in any way afford to went to theTuck Shop after lunch, to get some-thing to take away the taste of thedesserts we hated but always tried, justto see if they were as disgusting as weexpected. Tapioca pudding, mushybaked apples, slimy custard.

Vema? How could Vema be here?This must have been a Friday. Two

more days at camp, two more days togo. And it turned out that a contingentof Specials-here too they were calledSpecials-had been brought in to en-joy with us the final weekend. Notmany of them-maybe twenty alto-gether-and not all from my town butfrom other towns nearby. In fact asCharlene was trying to get the newsthrough to me a whistle was beingblown, and Counselor Arva hadjumped up on a bench to address us.

She said that she knew we wouldall do our best to make these visitors-these new campers-welcome, andthat they had brought their own tentsand their own Counselor with them.But they would eat and swim and playgames and attend the Morning Chatwith the rest of us. She was sure, shesaid, with that familiar warning or up-braiding note in her voice, that wewould all treat this as an opportunityto make new friends.

It took some time to get the tents upand these newcomers and their pos-sessions settled. Some apparently tookno interest and wandered off and hadto be yelled at and fetched back. Since

STORY 77

it was our free time, or Rest Time, wegot our chocolate bars or licorice whipsor sponge toffee from the Tuck Shopand went to lie on our bunks and en-joy them.Charlene kept saying, "Imagine.

Imagine. She's here. I can't believe it.Do you think she followed you?""Probably," I said."Do you think I can always hide you

like that?"When we were in the Tuck Shop

line I had ducked my head and madeCharlene get between me and the Spe-cials as they were being herded by. I hadtaken one peek and recognized Vemafrom behind. Her drooping snaky head."We should think of some way to

disguise you."From what I had said, Charlene

seemed to have got the idea that Ver-na had actively harassed me. And Ibelieved that was true, except that theharassment had been more subtle,more secret, than I had been able to de-scribe. Now I let Charlene think asshe liked because it was more excit-ing that way.Vema did not spot me immediate-

ly, because of the elaborate dodgesCharlene and I kept making, and per-haps because she was rather dazed, asmost of the Specials appeared to· be,trying to figure out what they were do-ing here. They were soon taken off totheir own swimming class, at the farend of the beach.At the supper table they were

marched in while we sang."The more we get together, together,

together,The more we get together,The happier we'll be. "They were then deliberately sepa-

rated, and distributed among the rest ofus. They all wore nametags. Acrossfrom me there was one named MaryEllen something, not from my town.But 1had hardly time to be glad of thatwhen I saw Vema at the next table,taller than those around her but thankGod facing the same way I was so shecould not see me during the meal.She was the tallest of them, and yet

not so tall, not so notable a presence,as I remembered her. The reason wasprobably that I had had a growing spurtduring the last year, while she had per-haps stopped her growing altogether.After the meal, when we stood up

78 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / FEBRUARY 2007

and collected our dishes, I kept myhead bowed, I never looked in her di-rection, and yet I knew when her eyesrested on me, when she recognized me,when she smiled her sagging little smileor made that odd chuckle in her throat."She's seen you," said Charlene.

"Don't look. Don't look. I'll getbetween you and her. Move. Keepmoving.""Is she coming this way?""No. She's just standing there. She's

just looking at you.""Smiling?""Sort of.""I can't look at her. I'd be sick."How much did she persecute me in

the remaining day and a half? Charleneand I used that word constantly,though in fact Vema never got near us.Persecute. It had an adult, legal sound.We were always on the lookout, as ifwe were being stalked, or 1 was. Wetried to keep track of Vema's where-abouts, and Charlene reported on herattitude or expression. I did risk look-ing at her a couple of times, whenCharlene had said, "Okay. She won'tnotice now."At those times Verna appeared

slightly cast down, or sullen, or bewil-dered,as if, like most of the Specials,she had been set adrift and did notcompletely understand where she wasor what she was doing there. Some ofthem had caused a commotion by wan-dering away into the pine and cedarand poplar woods on the bluff behindthe beach, or along the sandy road thatled to the highway. After that a meet-ing was called, and we were all asked towatch out for our new friends, whowere not so familiar with the place aswe were. Charlene poked me in theribs at that. She of course was not awareof any change, any falling away of con-fidence or even a diminishing of phys-ical size in this Vema, and she contin-ually reported on her sly and evilexpression, her look of menace. Andmaybe she was right-maybe Vemasaw in Charlene, this new friend orbodyguard of mine, this stranger, somesign of how everything was changedand uncertain here, and that made herscowl, though I didn't see it."You never told me about her

hands," said Charlene."What about them?""She's got the longest fingers I have

ever seen. She could just twist themround your neck and strangle you. Shecould. Wouldn't it be awful to be in atent with her at night?"

I said that it would be.~ Awful.

-lhere was a change, that lastweekend, a whole different feeling inthe camp. Nothing drastic. Themeals were announced by the dining-room gong at the regular times, andthe food served did not improve ordeteriorate. Rest time arrived, gametime and swimming time. The TuckShop operated as usual and we weredrawn together as always for theChat. But there was an air of growingrestlessness and inattention. Youcould detect it even in the Coun-selors, who might not have the samereprimands or words of encourage-ment on the tip of their tongues andwould look at you for a second as ifrecalling what it was they usuallysaid. And all this seemed to have be-gun with the arrival of the Specials.Their presence had changed thecamp. There had been a real campbefore, with all its rules and depriva-tions and enjoyments set up, as in-evitable as school or any part of achild's life, and then it had begun tocrumple at the edges, to reveal itselfas something provisional. Playacting.Was it because we could look at the

Specials and think that if they could becampers, then.there was no such thingas real campers? Partly it was that. Butit was partly that the time was comingvery soon when all this would be over,the routines would be broken up andwe would be fetched by our parents toresume our old lives, and the Coun-selors would go back to being ordinarypeople, not even teachers. We wereliving in a stage set about to be dis-mantled, and with it all the friend-ships, enmities, rivalries that had flour-ished in the last two weeks. Who couldbelieve it had been only two weeks?Nobody knew how to speak of this,

but a lassitude spread among us, a boredill-temper, and even the weather re-flected this feeling. It was probably nottrue that every day during the past twoweeks had been hot and sunny, butmost of us would certainly go awaywith that impression. And now, onSunday morning, there was a change.

While we were having the OutdoorDevotions (that was what we had onSundays instead of the Chat) theclouds darkened. There was no changein temperature-if anything, the heatof the day increased, but there was inthe air what some people called thesmell of a storm. And yet such stillness.The Counselors, and even the Minis-ter who drove out on Sundays fromthe nearest town, looked up occasion-ally and warily at the sky.A few drops did fall, but no more.

The service came to its end and nostorm had broken. The clouds grewsomewhat lighter, not so much as topromise sunshine but enough so thatour last swim would not have to be can-celed. After that there would be nolunch-the kitchen had been closeddown after breakfast. The shutters onthe Tuck Shop would not be opened.Our parents would begin arriving short-ly after noon to take us home, and thebus would come for the Specials. Mostof our things were already packed, thesheets were stripped and the roughbrown blankets, which always felt clam-my, were folded across the foot of eachcot. Even when it was full of us, chat-tering and changing into our bathingsuits, the inside of the dormitory cabinrevealed itself as makeshift and gloomy.It was the same with the beach. There

appeared to be less sand than usual,more stones. And what sand there wasseemed gray. The water looked as if itmight be cold though in fact it was quitewarm. Nevertheless our enthusiasm forswimming had waned and most of uswere wading about aimlessly.The Swim-ming Counselors-Pauline and themiddle-aged woman in charge of theSpecials-had to clap their hands at us."Hurry up, what are you waiting for?

Last chance this summer."There were good swimmers among

us who usually struck out at once forthe raft. And all who were even pass-able swimmers-that included Char-lene and me-were supposed to swimout to the raft at least once and turnaround and swim back, in order toprove that we could swim at least acouple of yards in water over our heads.Pauline would usually swim out thereright away, and stay in the deeper wa-ter, to watch out for anybody who gotinto trouble and also to make sure thateverybody who was supposed to do the

swim had done it. On this day, how-ever, fewer swimmers than usualseemed to be doing as they were sup-posed to, and Pauline herself after herfirst cries of encouragement or exas-peration was just bobbing around theraft laughing with and teasing thefaithful ones who had made their wayout there. Most of us were still pad-dling around in the shallows, swim-ming a few feet or yards, then standingon the bottom and splashing each oth-er or turning over and doing the deadman's float, as if swimming was some-thing hardly anybody could be both-ered with anymore. The woman incharge of the Specials was standingwhere the water came barely up to herknees-most of the Specials them-selves went no farther than where thewater came up to theirknees-and thetop part of her flowered skirted bathingsuit had not even got wet. She wasbending over and making little hand-splashes at her charges, laughing andtelling them isn't this fun.The water Charlene and I were in

was probably up to our chests and nomore. We were in the ranks of the sil-ly swimmers, doing the dead man'sfloat, and flopping about backstrokingor breaststroking, with nobody tellingus to stop fooling around. We weretrying to see how long we could keepour eyes open under water, we weresneaking up and jumping on each oth-er's back. All around us were plenty ofothers yelling and screeching withlaughter as they did the same things.During this swim some parents or

collectors of campers had arrived ear-ly, and let it be known they had notime to waste, so the campers who be-longed to them were being summonedfrom the water. This made for someextra calling and confusion."Look. Look," said Charlene. Or

sputtered, in fact, because I had pushedher underwater and she had just comeup soaked and spitting. I looked, andthere was Verna making her way to-wards us, wearing a pale-blue rubberbathing cap, slapping at the water withher long hands and smiling, as if her

rights over me had sudden-

I ly been restored.

have not kept up with Charlene.I don't even remember how we saidgood-bye. If we said good-bye. I have

STORY 79

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a notion that both sets of parents ar-rived at around the same time and thatwe scrambled into separate cars andgave ourselves over-what else couldwe dol-to our old lives. Charlene'sparents would certainly have had a carnot so shabby and noisy and unreli-able as the one my parents now owned,but even if that had not been so wewould never have thought of makingthe two sets of relatives acquaintedwith each other. Everybody, and weourselves, would have been in a hurryto get off, to leave behind the pocketsof uproar about lost property or whohad or had not met their relatives orboarded the bus.

By chance, years later,' I saw herwedding picture. This was at a timewhen wedding pictures were still pub-lished in the newspapers, not just insmall towns but in the city papers aswell. I saw it in a Toronto paper I waslooking through while I waited for afriend in a cafe on Bloor Street.

The wedding had taken place inGuelph. The groom was a native ofToronto and a graduate of OsgoodeHall. He was quite tall-c-or else Char-lene had turned out to be quite short.She barely came up to his shoulder,even with her hair done up in thedense, polished helmet-style of theday. The hair made her face seemsquashed and insignificant, but I gotthe impression her eyes were outlinedheavily, Cleopatra fashion, her lipspale. This sounds grotesque, but it wascertainly the look admired at the time.All that reminded me of her child-self was the little humorous bump ofher chin.

She-the bride, it said-had grad-uated from St. Hilda's College, inToronto.

So she must have been here inToronto, going to St. Hilda's, while Iwas in thesame city, going to Uni-versity College. We had been walk-ing around perhaps at the same timeand on some of the same streets orpaths on the campus. And never met.I did not think that she would haveseen me and avoided speaking to me.I would not have avoided speaking toher. Of course I would have consid-ered myself a more serious student,once I discovered she was going to St.Hilda's. My friends and I regarded St.Hilda's as a Ladies College.

80 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / FEBRUARY 2007

Now I was a graduate student in an-thropology. I had decided never to getmarried, though I did not rule out hav-ing lovers. I wore my hair long andstraight-my friends and I were antic-ipating the style of the hippies. Mymemories of childhood were muchmore distant and faded and unimpor-tant than they seem today.

I could have written to Charlene,in care of her parents, whose Guelphaddress had been published in the pa-per. But I didn't do so. I would havethought it the height of hypocrisy to

congratulate any woman on

B the occasion of her marriage.

ut she wrote to me, perhaps fif-teen years later. She wrote in care ofmy publishers.

"My old pal Marlene," she wrote."How excited and happy I was to seeyour name in Maclean's magazine. Andhow dazzled I am to think you havewritten a book. I have not picked it upyet because we have been away on hol-idays but I mean to do so--and read ittoo--as soon as I can. I was just goingthrough the magazines that had accu-mulated in our absence and there Isaw the striking picture of you and theinteresting review. And I thought thatI must write and congratulate you.

"Perhaps you are married but useyour maiden name to write under? Per-haps you have a family? Do write andtell me all about yourself. Sadly, I amchildless, but I keep busy with volun-teer work, gardening and sailing withKit (my husband). There always seemsto be plenty to do. I am presently serv-'ing on the Library Board and will twisttheir arms if they have not already or-dered your book.

"Congratulations again. I must sayI was surprised but not entirely be-cause I always suspected you might dosomething special."

I did not get in touch with her atthat time either. There seemed to beno point to it. At first I took no noticeof the word "special" right at the endbut it gave me a small jolt when Ithought of it later. However, I toldmyself, and still believe, that she meantnothing by it.

The book that she referred to wasone that had grown out of a thesis Ihad been discouraged from writing. Iwent ahead and wrote another thesis

but went back to the earlier one as asort of hobby project when I had time.I have collaborated on a couple ofbooks since then, as was duly expect-ed of me, but that book I did on myown is the only one that got me asmall flurry of attention in the out-side world (arid needless to say somedisapproval from colleagues). It is outof print now. It was called Imbecilesand Idols-a title I would never getaway with today and that even thenmade my publishers nervous, thoughit was admitted to be catchy.

What I was trying to explore was theattitude of people in various cultures-one does not dare say the word primitiveto describe such cultures-the attitudetowards people who are mentally orphysically unique. The words deficient,handicapped, retarded, being of coursealso consigned to the dustbin and prob-ably for good reason-not simply be-cause such words may indicate a supe-rior attitude and habitual unkindnessbut because they are not truly descrip-tive. Those words push aside a gooddeal that is remarkable, even awe-some-another word to go by theboards-or at any rate peculiarly pow-erful, in such people. And what was in-teresting was to discover a certainamount of veneration as well as perse-cution, and the ascribing-not entire-ly inaccurately-of quite a range of abil-ities, seen as sacred, magical, dangerous,or valuable. I did the best I could withhistorical as well as contemporary re-search and took into account poetryand fiction and of course religious cus-tom. Naturally I was criticized in myprofession for being too literary and forgetting all my information out of books,but I could not run around the worldthen. I had not been able to get a grant.

Of course I could see a connection,a connection that I thought it just pos-sible Charlene might get to see, too. It'sstrange how distant and unimportantthat seemed, only a starting point. Asanything in childhood appeared to methen. Because of the journey I hadmade since, the achievement of adult-hood. Safety.

Maiden name, Charlene had writ-ten. That was an expression I had notheard for quite a while. It is next doorto maiden lady, which sounds so chasteand sad. And remarkably inappropriatein my case. Even when I looked at

Charlene's wedding picture I was not avirgin-though I don't suppose she waseither. Not that I have had a swarm oflovers-or would even want to callmost of them lovers. Like most womenin my age group who have not lived ina monogamous marriage, I know thenumber. Sixteen. I'm sure that formanyyounger women that total would havebeen reached before they were out oftheir twenties or possibly out of theirteens. (When I got Charlene's letter, ofcourse, the total would have been less.I cannot-this is true-I cannot bebothered getting that straight now.)Three of them were important and allthree of those were in the chronolog-ical firsthalf-dozen of the count. WhatI mean by "important" is that withthose three-no, only two, the thirdmeaning a great deal more to me thanI to him-with those two, then, thetimes would come when you want tosplit open, surrender farmore than yourbody, dump your whole life into'onebasket with his.

I kept myself from doing so,

N but just barely.

ot long ago I got another let-ter. This was forwarded from the col-lege where I taught before I retired. Ifound it waiting when I returnedfrom a trip to Patagonia. (I have be-come a hardy traveler.) It was over amonth old.A typed letter-a fact for which the

writer immediately apologized."My handwriting is lamentable,"

he wrote, and went on to introducehimself as the husband of "your oldchildhood buddy, Charlene." He saidthat he was sorry, very sorry, to sendme bad news. Charlene was inPrincess Margaret Hospital inToronto. Her cancer had begun inthe lungs and spread to the liver.She had, regrettably, been a lifelongsmoker. She had only a short timeleft to live. She had not spoken ofme very often but when she did, overthe years, it was always with delightin my remarkable accomplishments.He knew how much she valued meand now at the end of her life sheseemed very keen to see me. She hadasked him to get hold of me.Well she is probably dead by now,

I thought.But if she was-this is how I

worked things out-if she was, Iwould run no risk in going to thehospital and inquiring. Then myconscience or whatever you wantedto call it would be clear. I couldwrite him a note saying that unfortu-nately I had been away, but hadcome as soon as I could.No. Better not a note. He might

show up in my life, thanking me. Theword buddy made me uncomfortable.

So in a different way did re-n markable accomplishments.

Lincess Margaret Hospital is only afew blocks away from my apartmentbuilding. On a sunny spring day Iwalked over there. I don't know why Ididn't just phone. Perhaps I wanted tothink I'd made asmuch efforras I could.At the main desk I discovered that

Charlene was still alive. When askedif I wanted to see her I could hardlysay no.I went up in the elevator still think-

ing that I might be able to turn away,before I found the nurses' station onher floor. Or that I might make a sim-ple U-turn, taking the next elevatordown. The receptionist at the maindesk downstairs would never noticemy leaving. As a matter of fact shewould not have noticed my leavingthe moment she had turned her at-tention to the next person in line, andeven if she had noticed, what would ithave mattered?I would have been ashamed, I sup-

pose. Not ashamed at my lack of feel-ing so much as at my lack of fortitude.I stopped at the nurses' station and

was given the number of the room.It was a private room, quite a small

room, with no impressive apparatusor flowers or balloons. At first I couldnot see Charlene. A nurse was bend-ing over the bed in which thereseemed to be a mound of bedclothesbut no visible person. The enlargedliver, I thought, and wished I had runwhile I could.The nurse straightened up,

turned, and smiled at me. She was aplump brown woman who spoke ina soft beguiling voice that mighthave meant she came from theWest Indies."You are the Marlin," she said.Something in the word seemed to

delight her.

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"She was so wanting for you tocome. You can come closer."

1 obeyed, and looked down at abloated body and a sharp ruined face,a chicken's neck for which the hospi-tal gown was a mile too wide. A frizzof hair-still brown-about a quarterof an inch long on her scalp. No signof Charlene.

I had seen the faces of dying peoplebefore. The faces of my mother andfather, even the face of the man I hadbeen afraid to love. I was not surprised.

"She is sleeping now," said the nurse."She was so hoping you would come."

"She's not unconscious?""No. But she sleeps."Yes there was, I saw it now, there

was a sign of Charlene. What was it?Maybe a twitch, that confident play-ful tucking away of a corner ofher mouth.

The nurse was speaking to me inher soft happy voice. "I don't know ifshe would recognize you," she said."But she hoped you would come. Thereis something for you."

"Will she wake up?"A shrug. "We have to give her in-

jections often for the pain."She was opening the bedside table."Here. This. She told me to give it

to you if it was too late for her. She didnot want her husband to give it. Nowyou are here, she would be glad."

A sealed envelope with my nameon it, printed in shaky capital letters.

"Not her husband," the nurse said,with a twinkle, then a broadeningsmile. Did she scent something illicit,a women's secret, an old love?

"Come back tomorrow," she said."Who knows? I will tell

I her if it is possible."

read the note as soon as I got downto the lobby. Charlene had managed towrite in an almost normal script, notwildly as in the sprawling letters onthe envelope. Of course she mighthave written the note first and put itin the envelope, then sealed the en-velope and put it by, thinking shewould get to hand it to me herself.Only later would she see a need to putmy name on it.

Marlene. I am writing this in case Iget too far gone to speak. Please dowhat I ask you. Please go to Guelphand go to the church and ask for Father

82 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / FEBRUARY 2007

Hofstrader. Church of Our Lady Im-maculate. Must be personal they mayopen his mail. Father Hofstrader .. ThisI cannot ask C and do not want himever to know. Father H knows and Ihave asked him and he says it is possi-ble to save me. Only I left so late.Marlene please do this bless you. Noth-ing about you.

C. That must be her husband. Hedoesn't know. Of course he doesn't.

Father Hofstrader.Nothing about me.I was free to crumple this up and

throw it away once I got out into thestreet. And so I did, I threw the en-velope away and let the wind sweep itinto the gutter on University Avenue.Then I realized the note was not in theenvelope, it was still in my pocket.

I would never go to the hospitalagain.

Kit was her husband's name. Now Iremembered. They went sailing.Christoper. Kit.

When I got back to my apartmentbuilding I found myself taking the el-evator down to the garage, not up tomy apartment. Dressed just as I was, Igot into my car and drove out ontothe street, and began to head towardsthe Gardiner Expressway.

The Gardiner Expressway, High-way 427, Highway 401. It was rushhour now, a bad time to get out of thecity. I hate this sort of driving, I don'tdo it often enough to be confident.There was under half a tank of gas,and what was more, I had to go to thebathroom. Around Milton, I thought,I could pull off the highway and fill upon gas and use the toilet and recon-sider. At present I could do nothingbut what I was doing, heading north,then heading west.

I didn't get off. I passed the Missis-sauga exit and the Milton exit. I sawa highway sign telling me how manykilometers to Guelph, and I translat-ed that roughly into miles in myhead; as I always have to do, and Ifigured the gas would hold out. Theexcuse I made to myself for not stop-ping was that the sun would be get-ting lower and more troublesome,now that we were leaving the fainthaze that lies over the city even onthe finest day.

At the first stop after I took theGuelph turnoff I got out and walked

to the ladies' washroom with stifftrembling legs. Afterwards I filledthe tank with gas and asked, when Ipaid, for directions to the church.The directions were not very clear,but I was told that it was on a bighill and I could find it from any-where in the heart of town.

Of course that was not true, thoughI could see it from almost anywhere. Acollection of delicate spires rising fromfour fine towers. A beautiful buildingwhere I had expected only a grandone. It was grand, too, of course, agrand dominating church for such arelatively small city.

Could that have been where Char-lene was married?

No. Of course not. She had beensent to a United Church camp, andthere were no Catholic girls at thatcamp though there was quite a varietyof Protestants. And then there was thebusiness about C not knowing.

She might have converted secretly.Since.

I found my way in time to thechurch parking lot, and sat therewondering what I should do. I waswearing slacks and a jacket. My ideaof what was required in a Catholicchurch were so antiquated that I wasnot even sure if my outfit would beall right. I tried to recall visits togreat churches in Europe. Somethingabout the arms being covered? Headscarves, skirts?

What a bright high silence therewas up on this hill. April, not a leaf outyet on the trees, but the sun after allwas still well up in the sky. There wasone low bank of snow as gray as thepaving in the church lot.

The jacket I had on was too light forevening wear, or maybe it was colderhere, the wind stronger, than inToronto.

The building might well be locked,at this time, locked and empty.

The grand front doors appeared tobe so. I did not even bother to climbthe steps to try them, because I decid-ed to follow a couple of old women-old like me-who had just come upthe long flight from the street and whobypassed those steps entirely, headingaround to an easier entrance at theside of the building.

There were more people inside,maybe two or three dozen people, but

there wasn't a sense that they weregathered for a service. They were scat-tered here and there in the pews, somekneeling and some chatting. Thewomen ahead of me dipped theirhands in a marble font without look-ing at what they were doing and saidhello-hardly lowering their voices-to a man who was setting out basketson a table.

"It looks a lot warmer out than itis," said one of them, and the man saidthe wind would bite your nose off.

I recognized the confessionals.Like separate small cottages or largeplayhouses in a Gothic style, with alot of dark wooden carving, darkbrown curtains. Elsewhere all wasglowing, dazzling. The high curvedceiling most celestially blue, the low-er curves of the ceiling-those thatjoined the upright walls-decoratedwith holy images on gold-paintedmedallions. Stained-glass windowshit by the sun at this time of daywere turned into columns of jewels. Imade my way discreetly down oneaisle, trying to get a look at the altar,but the chancel, being in the west-ern wall, was too bright for me tolook into. Above the windows,though, I saw that there were paint-ed angels. Flocks of angels, all freshand gauzy and pure as light.

It was a most insistent place butnobody seemed to be overwhelmedby all the insistence. The chattingladies kept chatting softly but not inwhispers. And other people, aftersome businesslike nodding and cross-ing, knelt down and went abouttheir business.

As I ought to be going about mine.I looked around for a priest but therewas not one in sight. Priests as well asother people must have a workingday. They must drive home and gointo their living rooms or offices ordens and turn on the television andloosen their collars. Fetch a drink andwonder if they were going to getanything decent for supper. Whenthey did come into the church theywould come officially. In their vest-ments ready to perform some cere-mony. Mass.

Or to hear confessions. But thenyouwould never know when they werethere. Didn't they enter and leave theirgrilled stalls by a private door?

I would have to ask somebody. Theman who had distributed the basketsseemed to be here for reasons thatwere not purely private though he wasapparently not an usher. Nobodyneeded an usher. People chose wherethey wanted to sit-or kneel-andsometimes decided to get up andchoose another spot, perhaps beingbothered by the glare of the jewel-inflaming sun. When I spoke to him Iwhispered, out of old habit in achurch-and he had to ask me tospeak again. Puzzledor embarrassed, henodded in a wobbly way towards oneof the confessionals. I had to becomevery specific and convincing.

"No, no. I just want to talk to apriest. I've been sent to talk to a priest.A priest called Father Hofstrader."

The basket man disappeared downthe more distant side aisle and cameback in a little while with a brisklymoving stout young priest in ordinaryblack costume.

He motioned me into a room I hadnot noticed-not a room actually, wewent through an archway, not a door-way-at the back of the church.

"Give us a chance to talk, in here,"he said, and pulled out a chair for me.

"Father Hofstrader-""Oh no, I must tell you, I am not Fa-

ther Hofstrader. Father Hofstrader isnot here. He is on vacation."

For a moment I did not know howto proceed.

"I will do my best to help you.""There is a woman," I said, "a

woman who is dying in Princess Mar-garet Hospital in Toronto-"

"Yes,yes.We know of Princess Mar-garet Hospital."

"She asks me-I have a note fromher here-She wants to see FatherHofstrader."

"Is she a member of this parish?""I don't know. I don't know if she is

a Catholic or not. She is from here.From Guelph. She is a friend I havenot seen for a long time."

"When did you talk with her?"I had to explain that I hadn't talked

with her, she had been asleep, but shehad left the note for me.

"But you don't know if she is aCatholic?"

He had a cracked sore at the cornerof his mouth. It must have been painfulfor him to talk.

"I think she is, but her husband isn'tand he doesn't know she is. Shedoesn't want him to know."

I said this in the hope of makingthings clearer, even though I didn'tknow for sure if it was true. I had anidea that this priest might shortlylose interest altogether. "FatherHofstrader must have known allthis," I said.

"You didn't speak with her?"I said that she had been under

medication but that this was not thecase all the time and I was sure shewould have periods of lucidity. Thistoo I stressed because I thoughtit necessary.

"If she wishes to make a confession,you know, there are priests available atPrincess Margaret's."

I could not think of what else tosay. I got out the note, smoothed thepaper, and handed it to him. I sawthat the handwriting was not as goodas I had thought. It was legible onlyin comparison to the letters onthe envelope.

He made a troubled face."Who is this C?""Her husband." Iwas worried that

he might ask for the husband's name,to get in touch with him, but insteadhe asked for Charlene's. This woman'sname, he said.

"Charlene Sullivan." It was a won-der that I even remembered the sur-name. And I was reassured for a mo-ment, because it was a name thatsounded Catholic. Of course thatmeant that it was the husband whocould be Catholic. But the priest mightconclude that the husband had lapsed,and that would surelymake Charlene'ssecrecymore understandable, her mes-sage more urgent.

"Why does she need Father Hof-strader?"

"I think perhaps it's somethingspecial."

"All confessions are special."He made a move to get up but I

stayed where I was. He sat down again."Father Hofstrader is on vacation

but he is not out of town. I couldphone and ask him about this. Ifyou insist."

"Yes. Please.""I do not like to bother him. He has

not been well."I said that ifhe was not well enough

STORY 83

to drive himself to Toronto I coulddrive him."We can take care of his trans-

portation if necessary."He looked around and did not see

what he wanted, unclipped a pen fromhis pocket, and then decided that theblank side of the note would do towrite on."If you'll just make sure I've got the

name. Charlotte-"" T "Charlene."

"as I not tempted, during allthis palaver? Not once? Not swayedby longing, by a magic-lantern show,the promise of pardon? No. Not real-ly. It's not for me. What's done isdone, what's done remains. Flocks

of angels, tears of blood,

I notwithstanding.

sat in the car without thinking toturn the motor on, though it was freez-ing cold by now. I didn't know what todo next. That is, I knew what I coulddo. Find my way to the highway andjoin the bright everlasting flow of carstowards Toronto. Or find a place tostay overnight, if! did not think I hadthe strength to drive. Most placeswould provide you with a toothbrush,or direct you to a machine where youcould get one. I knew what was nec-essary and possible, but it was beyond

my strength, for the mo-~ ment, to do it.

~he motorboats on the lake weresupposed to stay a good distance outfrom the shore. And especially fromour camping area, so that the wavesthey raised would not disturb our swim-ming. But on that last morning, thatSunday morning, a couple of themstarted a race and circled close in-not as close as the raft of course, butclose enough to. raise waves. The raftwas tossed around, and Pauline's voicewas lifted in a cry of reproach and dis-may. The boats made far too muchnoise for their drivers to hear her, andthey had already set a big wave rollingtowards the shore, causing most of us inthe shallows either to jump with it orbe tumbled off our feet.Charlene and I both lost our foot-

ing. We had our backs to the raft, be-cause we were watching Verna cometowards us. We were standing in wa-

84 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / FEBRUARY 2007

ter about up to our armpits, and weseemed to be lifted and tossed at thesame moment that we heardPauline's cry. We may have cried outas many others did, first in fear andthen in delight as we regained ourfooting and that wave washed onahead of us. The waves that followedproved to be not as strong, so that wecould hold ourselves against them.At the moment we tumbled, Verna

had pitched towards us. When we cameup, with our faces streaming, arms flail-ing, she was spread out under the sur-face of the water. There was a tumultof screaming and shouting all around,and this increased as the lesserwaves ar-rived and people who had somehowmissed the first attack pretended to beknocked over by the second. Verna'shead did not break the surface, thoughnow she was not inert but turning in aleisurely way, light as a jellyfish in thewater. Charlene and I had our hands onher, on her rubber cap.This could have been an accident.

As if we, in trying to get our balance,grabbed on to this nearby large rubberyobject, hardly realizing what it was orwhat we were doing. I have thought itall out. I think we would have beenforgiven. Young children. Terrified.Is this in any way true? It is true in

the sense that we did not decide any-thing, in the beginning. We did notlook at each other and decide to dowhat we subsequently and conscious-ly did. Consciously, because our eyesdid meet as the head of Verna tried torise up to the surface of the water. Herhead was determined to rise, like adumpling in a stew. The rest of herwas making misguided feeble move-ments down in the water, but the headknew what it should do. We mighthave lost our grip on the rubber head,the rubber cap, were it not for theraised pattern that made it less slip-pery. I can recall the color perfectly,the pale insipid blue, but I never de-ciphered the pattern-a fish, a mer-maid, a flower-whose ridges pushedinto my palms.Charlene and I kept our eyes on

each other then, rather than lookingdown at what our hands were doing.Her eyes were wide and gleeful, as Isuppose mine were too. I don't thinkwe felt wicked, triumphing in ourwickedness. More as if we were doing

just what was-amazingly-demand-ed of us, as if this was the absolute highpoint, the culmination, in our lives,of our being ourselves.The whole business probably took

no more than two minutes. Three? Ora minute and a half?It seems too much to say that the

discouraging clouds cleared up just atthat time, but at some point-perhapsat the trespass of the motorboats, orwhen Pauline screamed, or when thefirst wave hit, or when the rubber ob-ject under our palms ceased to have awill of its own-the sun burst out, andmore parents popped up on the beach,and there were calls to all of us to stophorsing around and come out of thewater. Swimming was over. Over forthe summer, for those who lived out ofreach of the lake or municipal swim-ming pools. Private pools were onlyin the movie magazines.As I've said, my memory fails when

it comes to parting from Charlene, get-ting into my parents' car. Because itdidn't matter. At that age, things end-ed. You expected things to end.I am sure we never said anything as

banal, as insulting or unnecessary, asDon't tell.I can imagine the unease starting,

but not spreading quite so fast as itmight have if there had not been com-peting dramas. A child has lost a san-dal, one of the youngest children isscreaming that she got sand in her eyefrom the waves. Almost certainly achild is throwing up, because of theexcitement in the water or the ex-citement of families arriving or thetoo-swift consumption of contrabandcandy. And the anxiety runningthrough this, that someone is missing.

"Who?""One of the Specials.""Oh drat. Wouldn't you know."The woman in charge of the Spe-

cials running around, still in her flow-ered bathing suit, with the custard fleshwobbling on her thick arms and legs.Her voice wild and weepy.Somebody go check in the woods,

run up the trail, call her name."What is her name?""Verna.""Wait.""What?""Is that not something out there in

the water?" •