Avalon, Ulster County, New York
Summer 1945
T
here was always a special excitement in the air on arrival day at Camp Kioga. Jane Gordon had done a countdown on her wall calendar, marking off each day with an X as summer approached. Of course this year, things were different in several ways, none of them particularly good.
Stuart was nearly a year gone. He would never again be around to help out, to tease everybody and make chores seem like fun. No one would ever hear his off-key whistling as he mowed the grounds, made fresh lines of white lime on the tennis courts, strung up the volleyball nets, repaired the bunks.
Their mother wasn’t present, either. After the double shocks last year of Stuart’s death, followed by the hasty closing and quarantine of the camp when George Bellamy came down with polio, something had happened to Mama. Something had caused her to change until she didn’t seem like Jane’s mother at all.
Before the news about Stuart, she used to sing as she gazed out the kitchen window over the sink, enjoying its view of the lush lawn and dirt road leading to the house.
Ever since that road had been traveled by the shiny government car, bringing the news about Stuart, Mama had not been the same. She behaved in strange ways, still gazing out the window but no longer singing. Sometimes she would just wash the same juice glass or salad plate over and over again, until Jane or her father noticed and took her by the hand and led her away to the sofa or porch swing.
No one said much, just that Mama was so sad and quiet, but as time went on, things got even worse. Jane had awakened one night to a rhythmic sound—
shush, shush, shush
—and had gone downstairs to find Mama in her kerchief, methodically sweeping the porch. It was pitch-dark.
It had frightened Jane to see her mother behaving so strangely. “Mama?” she’d said softly, “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes, yes,” Mama had said. She wasn’t looking at Jane at all, not one bit. She hadn’t really looked at Jane since the day of Stuart’s memorial.
“Mama, you should come inside,” Jane said.
Mama stared straight through Jane, and said, “Oh!”
A puddle appeared on the porch floor at her feet.
“Mama! You, um, gosh, Mama. I think you wet yourself,” Jane had said in mortification.
A few days afterward, Jane’s father took her aside and said her mother had suffered something called a Nervous Breakdown. She had to go away for a while, to a place called a sanitarium. There, she’d be with doctors and nurses who would help her get better.
As the weeks and months passed, Mama gradually did get better. Every Sunday afternoon, Jane and her father went to visit her at the clinic in Poughkeepsie. She was nothing like her old singing, piano-playing self, but she could carry on a conversation, dress herself and do her hair.
She tried coming home to Avalon a few times but it was too much for her. Eventually it was decided that she would stay with her sister in New Haven.
Jane tried never to feel sorry for herself but sometimes she couldn’t help it. When she started feeling the blues, she would slip into a canoe and paddle on the lake for hours, exploring the deep and secret places of the forest-bound water.
Despite the troubles with her mother, there was something irrepressible in Jane that made her look forward to the coming summer. Some days, she even forgot about Mama, which made her feel guilty. When she confessed this to her father, he held her close and said, “It’s all right to live your life, Janie. It’s the only thing to do sometimes, just live your life. Come on now, you can help me hoist the camp flag for opening day.”
As camp hosts, they were never supposed to play favorites, but Jane couldn’t help herself. Last year her most favorite guests of all had been the Bellamy brothers, George and Charles, and when she learned they would be back again this year, she was beside herself. She had loved their adventures together, the Three Musketeers exploring the world, watching out for each other. She was thrilled to know they’d be together again this summer.
“I was so worried, Pa, you know. About George.”
Her father nodded. “Everyone was. If the polio had killed him, I think we would have heard.”
She threw her energy into the pulley to raise the flag. “I can’t wait to see him! I’m so glad he’s all right.”
“Janie, he might not be—”
The tolling of the camp bell interrupted him, and they both hurried to offer a Kioga welcome to the guests. People arrived in big buses. Because of gas rationing, almost no one took a private car, not even the wealthiest of them.
Feeling grown-up at age twelve, Jane wore a new sailor dress and her best Mary Janes. She had her hair in ringlets, and Mrs. Romano, the head cook, said she looked just like Shirley Temple. She’d worked very hard all day to stay clean.
With her father and the rest of the staff, she greeted guests old and new. When someone asked about her mother, Jane gave the reply she’d rehearsed again and again, until she could say it without crying: “She’s spending the summer with her sister in Connecticut.”
Jane even managed to smile at Violetta Winslow, who was a terrible snob with nothing good to say about anyone. Mrs. Winslow declared that the new paint job on the cabins looked nice, but that she hoped the interiors had been refurbished, as well. “I’m sure you’ll find everything to your liking,” Jane said.
It was almost unbearable, waiting for Charles and George to exit the bus. Jiminy Cricket, she thought. Were they going to be the last ones off? It wasn’t fair to make her wait. It just wasn’t.
She had big plans for them this summer. She wanted to find the source of Meerskill Falls, the cataract that tumbled down from the soaring heights above Willow Lake. She wanted to swim to the very bottom of the
deepest part of the lake. She wanted to ride the river rapids and climb the rocks of the gorge.
A slender woman in an elegant sundress emerged from the bus. She wore a red scarf and dark glasses, which made her look like Lana Turner. Could it be…?
Yes. It was definitely Mrs. Bellamy. At last, Jane’s favorite guests had arrived. Charles came bounding out of the bus. He had grown much taller, Jane saw, weaving her way through the milling guests. He looked wonderful. Oh, they would have so much to talk about, they—
Mr. Bellamy got off the bus next, his empty shirtsleeve pinned up out of the way. He turned and spoke to someone behind him, and a large, burly workman appeared, holding George in his arms.
Jane stopped, the contents of her stomach curdling with dreadful apprehension. Why was George being carried off the bus?
She knew why, though. She didn’t want to understand, but she did. She stood frozen in place as a camp worker brought out a folding chair and set it up. No, it wasn’t a folding chair but…a wheelchair.
Jane had never seen one up close before. She watched in fascination as the workman stooped and lowered George into the chair.
George did not look wonderful. Thin and pale, he stared straight ahead, unsmiling, as his father went down on one knee in front of him to adjust the footrest on the chair. The expression on George’s face was completely blank, yet even from a distance, Jane could see his eyes were haunted.
A small but extremely shameful and terrified part of her wanted to run away. She simply did not know how to act in this situation.
It was too late to hide, so she continued forward, and approached the Bellamy family. “Welcome back,” she exclaimed, and was rewarded by a delighted grin from Charles. She caught George’s eye, too, but saw no pleasure in his thunderous expression.
“I didn’t realize you were…”
“Go ahead and say it,” George taunted. “A cripple. I’m a cripple.”
“I was going to say, I didn’t realize you were coming until Pa told me yesterday. I’m glad you didn’t die of polio,” Jane stated baldly.
“Well, that makes two of us.”
And just like that, a flash of inspiration told her how to act in this situation. Not as if everything were normal and the trouble did not exist. That would be a mistake.
After Stuart’s death, some people said stuff like, “He’s with the Lord now,” and “He died while serving a higher purpose,” but Jane never felt comforted by the well-meaning words. And some people simply didn’t acknowledge that there was anything strange going on with Jane’s mother. They acted like it was completely normal for a woman to freeze solid for two days straight, or to stare at nothing for hours. They pretended it was normal for her to go to a special hospital and then tell her husband and daughter she could not live with them anymore.
And somehow, pretending nothing was wrong hurt more than taking the trouble head-on.
What Jane needed was for someone to notice the pain and confusion she felt every day. She wanted someone to tell her how awful it was. Maybe that would mean she’d have to admit there was no end in sight. But maybe
then she could come to believe life was still worth living no matter what.
She was not going to pretend with George. What had happened was terrible. The least she could do was be honest with him.
“Welcome back to Camp Kioga,” she said to the Bellamys. “We’ve made quite a few changes around here. I can’t wait to show you. Come on, let’s go.”
Charles fell in step with her. No one else moved. Jane stopped walking. “George, are you coming?”
Fury burned in his eyes, as though he suspected her of mocking him. “Show my brother around. I have to be wheeled everywhere I want to go, in case you didn’t notice. I’ll just go to our cabin.”
There was a tense, quiet moment of challenge. Jane saw through his anger. One thing she had learned in the time after Stuart’s death—people got mad to cover up for feeling sad. And they always wanted someone to rip away the mask.
“Come on,” she said. “There’s nothing to do at the cabins except read books and listen to the radio while the grown-ups talk their faces off.”
“That’s all I can do, anyway.”
“You got eyes to see, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, but—”
“Come on, then. There’s a new swimming dock. Can I push you in your chair?”
“No.”
“
I
can,” Charles said, and took hold of the handles.
J
ane embraced her mission. She was relentless when it came to George Bellamy. Coaxing him out of his shell of anger and despair became her personal quest. Of course, she had her chores around the camp, which were many now that she was older and her mother was away. But the rest of the time was devoted to George.
She could usually find him on the porch of the Bellamys’ lakefront cottage. Pa had installed a ramp so George could be wheeled up and down. Each day, she thought up a reason to coax him out. “There’s a nest of robins that just hatched” was today’s suggestion.
“No, thanks.” He clung to glum hopelessness.
“Mr. Jacoby said we could come and see his worm farm. Ever seen a worm farm?”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Charles asked, coming out on the porch. “Who doesn’t want to see a worm farm?” He stomped away in disgust.
Jane felt torn between the two brothers. She really did want to show them her neighbor’s worm farm. On the
other hand, she wanted to stick with George and see if there was anything she could do to make him feel better.
“How about this?” she asked. “How about you tell me what you want to do, and we’ll do it.”
“I don’t want to do anything.”
“Even doing nothing is doing
something
. Just sitting here is something, but it’s not very interesting. You have to pick.”
“Who says?”
“I say.”
“Who are you to boss me around?” He jutted up his chin, glaring straight ahead.
“I’m the daughter of the owner of this camp, that’s who,” she said. “Now, pick something, or I’ll do the picking.”
He turned his furious eyes on her. Finally, with utmost reluctance, he said, “I’m supposed to learn how to maneuver this thing by myself.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because it’s impossible.”
“No,
you’re
impossible. I think moving the chair is just hard. That’s different from impossible.”
“Easy to say when you’re not the one doing it.”
“You’re not doing it, either.”
“Because I can’t.”
“Because you won’t. And won’t is different from can’t.”
“You’re just a dumb girl.”
“You’re just a lazy boy. I’ll make you a wager. I wager if you can get yourself down the ramp to the path, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“In what way?”
“You’ll see, after you get down the ramp. I promise it will be worth it.”
“It’ll be the bee’s knees,” said Charles, coming back to join them.
“What do you know?” George asked.
“I know when something is worth seeing.”
In the end, his curiosity won out. He puffed and strained and grew red in the face with the effort, but he made it down the ramp without tumbling over. Jane didn’t congratulate him; she sensed that making a big production of his progress might only make him shut down again.
“This way,” she said. “It’s not far.” She led the way to the barn. It was near her house, through a boundary marked Employees Only. Going into a restricted area was irresistible to the boys, she could tell.
“All right,” George said, his temples running with sweat. “I’m here. What were you going to show me?”
She motioned them into the barn, warm and fragrant with the scent of molasses-coated feed and dry hay. Making a
shushing
gesture with a finger to her lips, she bent down and moved aside a pile of straw in an old manger box. There, in a bar of sunlight streaming through the rafters, was a black-and-white mama cat, her body curved around a litter of powder-puff kittens.
The boys’ faces lit up.
“Can we hold them?” asked Charles.
“Not yet. They’re too little. Salem’s really tame, though. She’ll let you, when the time comes.”
The three of them took to visiting the barn every day. Charles usually grew restless and amused himself by climbing to the hayloft or playing on the tractor. George showed enormous patience with the kittens, talking softly to them, making friends with Salem. Within days,
the kittens were venturing forth from their nest, exploring the world around them.
George’s parents had given him a Kodak Brownie camera, and he took pictures of everything. “They each have their own personality already,” he pointed out. “That one is really bashful—the black one. The one next to him is always finding something to play with. And the one that looks like Salem is curious about everything. I call him Doctor. I brought him a toy today.” He took out a string with a button tied on the end, and played it along the floor.
It quickly caught the kittens’ attention. Following the lead of the ginger-colored kitten, they all eventually went to inspect the irresistible toy. At first, one would bat it and then slink back to see what it would do. Then, as they gained confidence, they would seize the button, engaging in a tug-of-war for possession. George brought the button closer and closer to his feet, then his knees, then his lap. Eventually the kittens climbed his legs and settled into his lap. Soon, he was able to cuddle and pet them.
“All it takes is a little patience,” he said, offering rare, sweet laughter as one of the kittens batted its paws at his shirt buttons.
“They’re wonderful, aren’t they?” said Jane. She loved the sight of the kittens, crawling all over him. “Here, I’ll take a picture.”
“No.” George spoke sharply, startling a couple of the kittens.
“Fine, I won’t.” She didn’t push, knowing he probably didn’t want a photo of himself in a wheelchair.
“What’s going to happen to them?”
“My father will let us keep one,” she said. “And I’m
going to ask him if I can take one to my mother in New Haven.”
“Your mother’s in New Haven?”
“She lives there now.”
“Forever?”
Jane nodded, swallowed a knot in her throat. “Ever since my brother was killed, she hasn’t wanted to live here.”
George grew quiet. “Because she misses him too much?”
“We all miss him too much. Being here at the farm and Camp Kioga made her sad all the time. She can’t do everyday things anymore.” Jane had no idea how she managed to push out the rest of the words. “In a way, it’s better that she’s there, staying with my aunt. See, when she’s having a bad spell about Stuart, I, um, um…I get kind of scared of her.”
Jane was surprised to discover it was possible to talk to George there in the dim barn, with shadows plentiful enough to duck into. In a way, she felt screened from him, the way she did in the confessional at church. The sense of privacy made it easier to speak honestly.
“I’m sorry,” George said.
She’d heard the phrase so many times in the past year, she wanted to scream. Everybody was sorry. Sorry Stuart had been on a boat that got hit by a Japanese shell blast. Sorry he’d been blown to kingdom come. Sorry there wasn’t even enough left of him to send home in a box. Sorry her shattered mother couldn’t be pieced together again any more than Stuart could.
Everybody was sorry but no one could fix anything.
“I bet you hate hearing that,” George said as though
reading her mind. “I bet you hate hearing people say how sorry they are.”
She shuffled her bare foot through the straw on the floor and nodded her head. How had he known?
“I hear it a lot, too,” he added. “Lots of people were sorry I got sick. They were so sorry all the time that I started being sorry, too, and feeling sorry for myself. So the reason I said just now I was sorry is that I want you to know, I’m going to quit feeling sorry for myself. Right now. Right this minute.”
Jane paused, not sure she had heard correctly. But she had; there in the barn, quiet but for the mewling of the kittens in his lap, there could be no mistaking what he’d said. Very slowly she raised her head. Her face lit with a smile that nearly lifted her off her feet. “Was it the kittens that convinced you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not the kittens.”
She waited for him to say more, but he just stayed quiet, his expression a little mysterious.
After that day, the three of them—Charles, George and Jane—took to going on long hikes with Jane leading the way, sometimes having to pry big rocks out of the path or use her father’s pruning shears to clear away branches. Day by day, George grew stronger, his arms quicker and more sure as they pumped the large wheels of his chair. When they came to the steep parts, Charles would push the chair from behind, never daunted by an uphill slope, even one that made his face red with exertion.
Charles turned sinewy and suntanned from his daily efforts. Jane’s skin was perpetually scratched from insect bites and forays in the underbrush. And slowly, gradu
ally, George changed, too. He went from being a passive participant in their adventures to taking part in his own way. They still played games of Three Musketeers or Pirate King or Superman, but not the way they had in the past with the three of them racing and jumping and climbing. Perhaps George could no longer run through the forest like a Mohawk on the hunt, but he could narrate stories of danger and adventure, while Jane and Charles listened, enraptured, or acted them out. Sometimes George’s stories made them do things that were risky or silly, but they always ended with laughter.
At first, Mrs. Bellamy would fret and wring her hands every time Jane conceived of another adventure. But Mr. Bellamy would always give them permission, and off they went, out into the summer forest. Jane was even allowed to take them to the camp’s rifle range, and under supervision, the boys were given shooting lessons by the resident marksman, a war veteran who had lost a leg. George seemed inspired by the idea that a man with one leg had mastered a sport. He practiced hard at his lessons and was soon the best shot at the camp.
Jane loved seeing George come out of his shell. She loved being one of the Three Musketeers again. He taught her and Charles to play chess and backgammon. They worked crossword puzzles together and held spelling bees with the other campers.
One night, Jane organized a game of hide-and-seek. She grew frightened when everyone but George had been found. She and the others called and called, and her heart beat faster every second, like a panicked bird.
“Over here,” Charles called. “He’s been calling for us, but our yelling drowned him out.”
George sat on the ground at the edge of the woods. There were burrs and bits of grass in his hair and clinging to his shirt, but he didn’t seem injured.
“He’s fine,” one of the other kids yelled. “Not even bleeding or nothing.” This caused the others to lose interest, and they all dispersed.
Her knees wobbly with relief, Jane sank down beside George. “What happened?” she asked. “We were so worried.”
“I took a spill,” he said, swiping angrily at his cheeks.
“I’ll go find your chair.” Charles went thrashing off into the dark.
Jane stayed with George, trying to make her pulse slow down. “Are you all right?” she asked him. “George, you’re shaking.”
“I got lost and my chair tipped over, and I had to crawl out of the woods. Do you know what that’s like, crawling through the woods in the dark?”
“No, I don’t. Maybe now you’ll realize you’d better figure out how to walk,” said Jane. She knew better than to baby him, particularly when he was being a baby.
“I can’t, you ninny. Don’t you think if I could walk, I would?”
“I think you’re scared to try, same as you were scared of pushing your own chair when you first got here. But you managed to get around all by yourself. All it took was a lot of hard work.”
He stared down at his left leg with an expression of extreme concentration. “Do you know what tracers are?” he asked in a small voice that was almost a whisper. “In polio victims, I mean.”
She shook her head. “Never heard of ’em.”
“Tracers are tiny threads of live muscle tissue in the damaged area. If you have tracers, supposedly those live muscles can be developed and will eventually replace the tissue that atrophied. Do you know what
atrophied
means?”
“Damaged, I guess.”
He nodded. “Pretty much. In the hospital, I used to sit for hours studying my leg, looking for tracers.”
“And did you find them?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have a trained eye.”
She wanted to touch him, maybe give him a hug or smooth her hand over his hair the way her father did when he told her good-night. Instead she challenged him. “Maybe you have to find those muscles by trying to use them. Like trying to walk.”
“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “Walking’s different.”
“Why, because it’s hard? Jiminy Cricket, you’re not scared of hard work, are you?”
“No, but what if I do all the work, and it does no good?”
She thought about that for a moment. “What’s the worst thing that can happen? You’ll fail? Believe me, some things are worse than failing.”