This is a fiction version of a story I cut from my manuscript this week. Some of you may recognize the thinly veiled references to my time as a summer camp administrator.
Vesperae
August, 1991
“What does vespers mean anyway?” Audra asked.
“Vespers comes from the Latin vesperae, or evening star,” Hardy said.
“Yeah,” Emilia added, “it refers to the brightest star in the evening sky, which is actually a planet.”
“Well, not really, Emilia. It refers to the first star in the evening sky, but you’re right about the planet. I think it’s Venus or Jupiter. Somewhere in the middle of the 17th century, it came to mean an evening religious service.” Hardy knew vespers at Camp Chesterton wasn’t religious, but it had a sacred tone to it.
“Like in The Sound of Music, Maria is always late for vespers, but not every meal,” Emilia said.
“Kind of like you Dallas girls,” Hardy said. He didn’t mean it, and they knew it.
“At Chesterton we have vespers every Sunday night about all sorts of things. This is the first one of the term. The senior girls always get to do it, because they know so much about it. You’d know about vespers if you and Candace had been at camp forever like the rest of us.” Emilia had a way of comforting people and excluding them at the same time.
“What if it rains, Hardy?” Emilia was a worrywart.
“Well, you know something, Emilia, what if isn’t. . .”
“Part of your vocabulary,” she finished his sentence.
“That’s right. If it rains we’ll have the program in the dance pavilion, like we always do. You know that.”
What if was Hardy’s job at Camp Chesterton. He was constantly thinking what if, but these seven teenage girls didn’t need to know that.
“But what about the cortège?” Emilia asked, her voice on the border of whining.
“The what?” Claire asked.
“If it rains we’ll just have to take it to the river after the program. And stop calling it that,” Hardy answered. “It’s not a cortège, it’s a floating thingy that holds little slips of paper with lit candles on its corners. A cortège is a funeral procession, Emilia. We could call it a flotilla if you want, but we still wouldn’t be correct. A flotilla is a collection of boats.”
“What are we writing on the slips of paper again?” Amanda wanted to know.
“Jeez! Pay attention, Mandy!” Emilia snapped.
“Girls! Girls! You’re both pretty!” Hardy blurted. That put a stop to the bickering and made the girls laugh.
The fact that Emilia took herself so seriously was no laughing matter, however. Hardy liked Emilia. She was scrappy. But the girls thought she was bossy. Since the activities calendar was published, Emilia had been masterminding the vespers program. Although these girls had only been at camp a few days, Hardy knew most of them had spent many summers together. Senior girls brought an acute sense of camp history with them. Hardy often joked that they packed more baggage than other campers. Emilia had been an outspoken member of this group since she was eight years old. In years past, it seemed the entire camp went through an adjustment period of two or three days before they learned to listen to Emilia with only one ear. Five of the girls were doing that already; the two new girls, Audra and Candace, were still adjusting.
“Well, Hardy, I’ve only explained it, like, a hundred times!” Emilia said.
“Well, Emilia, maybe you should explain it, like, once more in a civil tone, and then maybe we can move on with the rest of the program,” Hardy mimicked Emilia. This raised her hackles. She looked at her shoes, and then straight into Hardy’s eyes.
“I just want you to know that you’re not the only cynic in the room,” Emilia said. Hardy knew she’d heard that from her father, a popular history professor at UT in Austin. The comment bugged him enough to stop talking. His initial reaction was to deny it, but she had him pinned. Was it cynicism? Or wit? Emilia’s language skills weren’t always as sharp as her tongue.
“Okay, Mandy, it’s simple,” Emilia said. She wasn’t necessarily cynical, Hardy thought. Emilia was condescending. He wondered if she understood the difference.
“The whole program is based on the concept of balance. You know, there always has to be a little bit of bad with the good, and, like, every cloud has a silver lining and stuff like that. I was in The Sound of Music this year at school, and there’s a line in there about how every time God shuts a door he opens a window, and I think that is an excellent thing to say. So, you and Claire are going to do a dance that is about going through a bad time and being reborn with a new opportunity. Get it?”
Emilia hardly breathed when she spoke. She was at that age, Hardy thought, when everything is said on the same breath, with the same amount of importance. Forest fires and corn flakes were all spoken of in the same rushed manner.
“Yeah, I get it, Emilia,” Mandy said, “but I don’t get what the paper is for.”
“Okay. Every camper and staff person is going to get a piece of paper about the size of a recipe card. Hardy will get us 200 pieces of paper—300 just to be sure. Then, I am going to tell them that they are to write what they hope for on one side of the paper and what they fear the most on the other side. We’re going to play a CD while they do that. Then they are all going to put the pieces of paper in the cortège, and we are going to put it in the pond and have a moment of silence while the cortège floats across the pond and out into the river.” Emilia inhaled, and Hardy seized his opportunity.
“That’s it? That’s the end?” he asked, trying hard not to sound critical.
“What do you think?” Emilia looked solemn and sincere.
Hardy knew not to say much here. This was their program. As much as he wanted to say that the whole idea sounded like a lot of work, he knew that wasn’t his place. His role in this whole thing was administrative only—scheduling, procurement and accountability. For the latter, he looked to Dave and Nancy, the camp owners.
“Sounds good,” he said.
***
“What will it take to clear an area big enough for the entire camp at the edge of Lodge Pond?” Hardy asked Miguel, the head of the camp’s maintenance staff, a few days later. “The girls want to do the vespers program there. At the end of the program they want to float a sort of flaming raft thingy across the pond. We also need a place for two Dallas girls to dance, and Doony is going to do a solo with her guitar. Oh! And there’s a play, I don’t know what we’ll need for that; the girls haven’t written it yet. I’m supposed to see it tonight,” he said.
Miguel didn’t blink.
“I’ll need a new or sharpened blade for the sickle-bar mower, and a few hours notice to haul the benches from the dining hall and riding arena. If you want anything to float across the pond, you’re going to have to open the flow-gate. You’ll need the sound system plus about 50 yards of extension cord,” Miguel didn’t miss a beat. “And you’ll need about ten citronella torches that are full and burning about an hour before the show. The mosquitoes are hatching down there and the place is really buggy at dusk. You better pray it doesn’t rain. That will make the mosquitoes worse, and that little boy… it’s thunderstorm season, Hardy.” His voice trailed off.
Hardy knew Miguel was talking about a boy named Patrick. He had recently witnessed his babysitter get hit by lightning and fall off the roof of an office building in San Angelo. Only a handful of adults at Chesterton knew about the accident. No one knew why he was on the roof or why his parents had sent him to summer camp.
“Do you have any idea about the floating vessel?” Hardy asked. He tried to get back to the point of the shopping trip, although he shared Miguel’s soft spot for special kids.
Miguel squinted and looked at the sky. “Stop at Wal-Mart and pick up a six-pack cooler. That’ll float. We can weight it with sand so it won’t tip over. We can test it tonight after lights out.”
***
The weekend activities at Camp Chesterton started for Hardy on Wednesday, when he made his weekly shopping trip into town for supplies. This Wednesday, his list included a vessel that would hold 300 slips of paper and some candles without tipping over. Hardy found this amusing—the thought of the entire camp’s hopes and fears sinking before their eyes. He had grown fond of getting away from camp. These past couple of years it seemed like he had become tired. He worried that he was placing too much emphasis on his summer job—concerned that if his entire life revolved around camp, maybe too much was passing him by. Going to town on these rushed afternoons helped clue him in that life was being lived all around him. It lifted his spirits some but made him anxious at the same time.
Hardy loved the anonymity of Wal-Mart. He could buy swim caps, a case of corn oil, tempera paint, Twister and 50 rolls of film without the clerk batting an eye. Touring the aisles with a bulging cart, he picked up a six-pack cooler, plumber’s candles, duct tape, four tiki-style torches and a gallon of citronella oil. Miguel had said ten, but they were expensive. They broke the vespers program budget, but Hardy knew he could use the tiki torches at other functions, so he didn’t mind paying for four.
After dinner, the senior girls gathered in the drama building for rehearsal. Hardy got the distinct impression that everyone was fed up with Emilia.
“The play is stupid, Hardy!” Emilia said, walking into the room.
“Do you think that’s fair, Emilia?” Hardy asked.
“Well, it’s just going to about ruin the whole thing!” she said.
“It’s Wednesday, Emilia. The performance is Sunday. Never underestimate the power of fear and panic.” Hardy was losing his patience with Emilia. He wondered if that was cynicism, or wit.
Claire and Amanda, Dallas girls to the core, arrived five minutes late. There was a tacit understanding of Dallas girls at Camp Chesterton. They always looked good; their hair was perfectly coiffed, and their clothes fit properly if not a little too snug. They hardly ate at mealtimes and were known to be extremely polite, but were always five minutes late. Yet no one was more dependable than a Dallas girl. They had an inherent false-sincerity that made their speech sound important, yet casual. They could read children’s books aloud better than most girls their age, and every single one of them had taken dance lessons. Claire and Amanda’s eyes were slightly narrowed.
Hardy did the best thing he could—divide and conquer. He sent Claire and Amanda to the dance pavilion to work on their dance, and Doony off with her guitar to the bathroom. He asked Audra and Candace to stay with him, and he told Emilia to go to the back porch and write her speech—alone.
“I can’t call it a floating thingy, Hardy,” Emilia said before she left.
“Call it a vessel,” Hardy offered. “Or a craft.”
“I like vassal,” Emilia said.
“Vessel,” Hardy corrected her. “A vassal is something completely different.”
Emilia was right. The play was stupid. Audra and Candace weren’t adept at handling Emilia, so by the time they got to rehearsal they were fairly freaked out. The play was 15 lines long. In the play, a little girl is afraid of nightmares. Her mother tells her to go to sleep and all her dreams will come true. Curtain. End of play. Hardy encouraged the girls to stretch the material out so that the play lasted about 12 minutes. He asked them questions about plot. Why is the little girl afraid? Can she describe a nightmare? Why does falling asleep mean all your dreams will come true? He knew the girls had a shot at making a good play by answering these questions. Later, he would steer them toward incorporating fear and hope into the dialogue.
He couldn’t just come out and say that most people’s hopes are the basis of their fears. That we all hope for something, and fear is bred when we don’t think we’re going to get what we hope for. He knew that fear could paralyze you in the middle of the night—especially if you think your hopes are all wrong, or that you’ve been wasting your time hoping for something you know will never come.
“Hardy? Where are you?” The shortwave radio Hardy was required to carry cackled to life, startling him. It was Nancy’s voice.
“I’m in the drama building with the senior girls. We’re rehearsing. What do you need?” he asked.
“Well, there’s a thunderhead coming up the valley, and I think Patrick will have to come to the office. Tell the seniors to head home, then go to the pool and have B.J. blow the whistle on the free-swim.” Nancy’s voice caused Hardy to shift into calm by reflex. He knew the most efficient way to get things done, and although Nancy was urgent, panic wasn’t necessary.
“Girls, you’re going to have to head home. It’s going to be a real gully-washer. Look over your lines and I’ll stop by tonight and see the play again. Ask your counselors for help,” he said, as he flipped the switch that turned off the outdoor floodlight.
“B.J., let’s shut her down,” Hardy said, once he got to the pool. The campers knew this was coming—the sky was turning purple. Many of them were already out of the pool, shivering in their towels. B.J. blew his whistle, and Hardy stood at the pool gate as the campers lined up in front of him.
“Okay, campers, listen up! Go to your cabins quickly and get into some warm clothes. Counselors, maybe this would be a good night for a fire in your fireplaces but no outdoor campfires tonight—sorry guys. We’ll be by with snacks in a little while. Those of you in tents best drop the flaps for the night. I need to see B.J. and Patrick. You may go.” As the campers started to leave, Hardy called out, “Goodnight Camp Chesterton!” Several campers called out, “Goodnight Hardy!”
B.J. was the head of the swimming department and counselor of Patrick’s age group, known affectionately as the middle-aged boys. This could be a difficult group of kids. The older boys were fairly independent, and the younger boys were easy because they played so hard, but the middle-aged boys, the 10- to 13-year olds, could be a handful. Patrick was barely 10. Small for his age, he was either teased or doted on by the older campers.
“Beej, Patrick is going to stay with me for awhile,” Hardy told both of them. “Could you cover the pool? Nancy will most likely bring snacks to the boys.”
B.J. looked at Patrick and said, “We’ll see you after the storm, Pat. Stick with Hardy, you’ll get an extra granola bar,” he winked at Patrick, who remained staring at the ground.
“B.J., send someone with warm clothes,” Hardy said.
“Sure thing,” B.J. said, trotting toward the pool cover.
“C’mon Patrick, let’s go build a fire in the office—that ought to warm you up. Have you got all your stuff?” Hardy didn’t expect an answer. He knew they had to get moving, or they’d be caught in the downpour. The oncoming storm had driven Patrick nearly comatose. Hardy put his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulled him close to his hip. “C’mon big P,” he said as they approached the gate, “let’s get that fire started.”
A distant boom of thunder echoed through the valley. Patrick tensed and looked down at the ground. Hardy squatted in front of the boy and tried to make eye contact. “Patrick, I’m here and you’re here and that lightning was miles away. But I’m not going to lie to you partner, it’s coming closer. Now we’re going to the office, and we’ll light a fire, and B.J. will send you some warm clothes. Do you think you can walk, or do you want me to carry you?” Patrick remained staring at the ground, so Hardy whisked him up into his arms and pulled the gate shut behind them.
Once they got to the office, Hardy deposited the towel-clad boy in front of the fireplace and threw a Presto log onto the grate and lit it with a kitchen match. He grabbed his radio and pressed the talk button.
“Nancy, I’ve got Patrick here at the office,” he said.
“Tell him to hang in there!” Nancy said. “His mom’s number is on the desk blotter,” she added. It hadn’t come to that yet, but tonight—with the sound of heavy rain on the metal roof—Hardy thought even he could stand a little mothering. As he headed for the desk, there was a knock on the office door.
“Here’s some clothes, Hardy.” It was Johnny Slocomb, one of Patrick’s more responsible cabin-mates.
“Thanks, Johnny,” Hardy said.
“Is he going to be okay?” Johnny asked, staring at Patrick who stood sentinel at a Presto log fire.
“Sure thing, buddy. He’ll be just fine. Do you need an umbrella?”
“NO!” Patrick cried. “No umbrella! Are you fucking nuts!? Umbrellas are lightning rods! Jesus Christ!” Patrick had spun around and was shouting at them. He had dropped his towel and stood by the fire in his swim trunks.
“Good!” Hardy shouted back, surprised at the edge in his voice. “Thanks for the tip, Patrick. What would we do without you?”
Patrick fell silent and turned back to the fire. Johnny was too afraid to say anything. “Thanks for the help Johnny. Now go back to your cabin, and Nancy will be by with snacks in a little while,” Hardy was talking louder than necessary. Johnny looked at Patrick and then back at Hardy. Hardy smiled at him.
“Holy shit!” Johnny said as he turned to leave.
“Did I miss something?” Hardy asked. “Is it Swear Word Day at Camp Chesterton?”
Johnny muttered, “Sorry, Hardy,” as he pulled the office door closed on his way out.
“Let’s get you dry,” Hardy said, throwing a couple of real logs onto the fire. Patrick stared at the floor, motionless. “Patrick, you’re going to get cold if you don’t put on some dry clothes,” Hardy reasoned.
No response.
“C’mon, buddy.” Hardy added an edge to his voice, as he wrote Patrick’s home phone number on the palm of his hand. Patrick stood silent, then stepped behind a chair and changed clothes. When he stepped back in front of the fire, Hardy picked up the wet swim trunks and towel and hung them on the doorknob. He returned to Patrick and sat on the hearth, between the boy and the fire.
“Want a stick of gum?” Hardy asked. He thought this might draw a response. Gum was forbidden at Camp Chesterton. Hardy only used the gum ploy in extreme cases. Patrick shifted his gaze from the floor up to Hardy. Just then, lightning flashed, and the room went dark. Patrick’s face went from calm to panicked and he pushed Hardy hard in the chest, nearly knocking him into the fire.
“That’s a pretty good shove Patrick!” Hardy said, as he stood and crossed to the desk, secretly praying there was some gum in the top drawer. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Hear that?” Hardy asked. “That sounds like it’s fairly far away.” He lied as he fumbled in the desk drawer for gum. “Here we go!” he said, producing an old pack of Juicy Fruit. “Now let’s get warm and enjoy our gum!” Hardy said as he tried to act like that wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. Lightning flashed again, this time a little longer than the last. It turned the golden hue of the little office blue for an instant, changing the shadows from warm to hostile. Hardy thought to himself—for the first time that night—a lightning storm was damn scary.
Patrick rushed at him, and Hardy braced himself, thrusting the gum between them like a switchblade. Either the boy was going to hug him, or tackle him—both seemed entirely possible. Patrick knocked the gum away and grabbed Hardy tight around the waist, burying his face in Hardy’s belly.
“Whoa Big P! That was close, huh!?” Hardy said just before the thunder boomed and rattled the office windows. Hardy covered the boy’s ears. Then he pried Patrick free and swooped him up into his arms. They moved to the chair and sat down by the fire, Patrick curling into a tight, trembling ball on Hardy’s lap. Hardy hoped the lightning would pass over the camp quickly.
“Hardy?” Patrick’s voice was weak. Hardy could hardly hear him over the rain.
“Yeah, partner?” Hardy asked.
“Do you like the rain?”
“I love the rain!” Hardy said, too cheery. “I like the fact that it cleans the dust off of things and helps the forest grow. I love the smell of the forest after it rains, and I like to go down to the river and watch the water rush. Rain is good for business!” Hardy was saying stuff that was so stupid it surprised even him. “What about you? How do you feel about the rain?” he asked.
“It’s okay,” Patrick offered.
The next thunderclap came almost before the lightning. The boy curled even tighter in Hardy’s lap. The rain was falling in sheets on the roof. That meant a short storm. In twenty minutes, it would seem like it hadn’t rained at all. “It’s the lightning I hate,” Patrick said. “I hate it! I hate it! I…”
“Okay, Patrick. You can hate it. It’s okay. But hating lightning isn’t going to stop it from happening. We’re pretty high up in the mountains, you know, and these thunderstorms sound closer to us than they are. I know that doesn’t help much, and it probably scares you even more, but I think you need to know that by coming to camp, well, you’re downright brave, Patrick. Downright brave.” Hardy’s voice was failing him. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his emotions took over.
“I don’t mind the rain, but I hate the thunder and lightning.”
“Well, Patrick, that’s…” Hardy didn’t know what to say.
“It’s all bullshit, Hardy!” Patrick cried as the lightning flashed farther away.
“I don’t think so, Patrick. I don’t! I don’t know if you can understand that you can’t stop stuff like that from happening, partner. Your job now is to stay here and get on with it. You can’t hold back lightning. And cursing at thunder isn’t going to help. We need the rain, Patrick. It helps things grow.” For a while, that was all Hardy could muster. Moments passed as the two looked into the fire. Finally, Hardy said, “We need you, Patrick.” The room became silent and the slowing patter of rain lulled them.
The thunder boomed in the distance, farther down the canyon.
***
Vespers was going well. The play wasn’t bad, and the Dallas girls danced well. Doony’s song, about contrasts and balance, had been a big hit. As country music floated across Lodge Pond, Hardy looked around at the 200 or so people surrounding him and joined them in finding a flat surface to write upon. He looked at Emilia, her head bowed with a mixture of reverence and concentration. Then he stared into the blank piece of paper in his own hand.
Emilia looked up from her note cards, bit her top lip, exhaled and launched into her speech, which was a mystery to Hardy. Emilia had made so many revisions and additions, that he’d given up editing it altogether. It was a tense moment for Hardy, but Emilia shone with pride and confidence.
“On the four corners of the vessel are four candles,” Emilia said. “Each one signifies part of what will protect our hopes on their journey down our river. Each will also light the way for our fears to leave us.” Emilia paused as Doony lit the first candle. “The first candle stands for utility. What are we, if we are not useful to each other? The second candle stands for trust. We trust each other and our parents, our counselors and our leaders to guide us through any rough water we may encounter.” Doony lit the second candle, and the first candle blew out. Hardy knew that Doony could figure it out. She was a smart girl. “The third candle stands for faith, whatever you consider that to be. Every one of us believes in something. Our faith in each other is the foundation for our hope. When we lack faith, we plant the seeds of fear. The last candle,” Emilia paused for dramatic effect, “stands for community. We are all part of a camp family, and even when we aren’t at camp, our family holds us up and keeps us safe. We are all part of the family of humankind. Recognizing this is the easiest—and sometimes the hardest—thing we can do.” Hardy’s scalp tingled. He wasn’t sure if it was rain, or Emilia’s speech, but something was getting to him, and he started to smile. “Tonight, as we send out our hopes and fears let us take a moment of silence and summon our usefulness, trust, faith and community to help make the world a more balanced place.” As Emilia finished her speech, she nodded to Hardy to change the music, then she placed the vessel near the water and campers started filing forward to drop in their slips of paper.
Once he hit the proper buttons on the sound system, Hardy glanced at Dave and Nancy, at Miguel and B.J. and finally at Patrick. Patrick looked at him, then at the sky. He smiled and winked at Hardy, who smiled back. Everyone in the camp, child and adult, was considering what Emilia had just said.
This was no time for cynics, Hardy thought. And although he felt like laughing, he started to cry.
On one side of his slip of paper he wrote:
I hope for rain.
On the other side he wrote:
I fear the thunder and lightning.
Hardy breathed in deeply. As he exhaled, it was as if a wet shirt was being pulled from his body. Then he looked up, and between two big fluffy thunderheads, he saw the evening’s first bright star.
