Next morning she screams when he tells her to get in the car to go to camp, cries when he leaves her, won’t look at him when he picks her up or do anything later but complain to him at home. Same thing the next two days but worse. It’s the freezing lake water, rough games, competitive sports, smelly outhouses, baby stuff they do in arts and crafts, a sort of open shed the girls have to undress in and which the boys are always peeking into, no drinking water anywhere so you have to lug around your heavy thermos everyplace or die of thirst, scavenger hunts that take hours in the woods or hot sun and turn out to mean nothing — either they disqualify half the things you find or the prize is a piece of old bubble gum.
She’s sullen most of the weekend. He works a couple of hours both mornings but they do a few things after that — go to the ocean, eat in a restaurant, climb halfway up a big hill but what the locals call a mountain, pick blueberries that aren’t ready yet, but he can tell that camp on Monday’s usually on her mind. “All right,” he says at dinner Sunday night, “list everything that’s good and bad about camp, but be honest. First of all, from what I can see the girls are darn nice. One of them — Laurie or Lauren, I think — when we got to camp late Friday, ran up to you and said ‘Debbie, where were you? I missed you. I thought you weren’t coming today, and then you’d have missed the field trip to Goose Cove,’ and took your hand and you both walked happily away.” “I wasn’t happy. And except for the rougher boys, it’s not the kids at all.” She enumerates what she hates most about camp. When she gets to “Eight, the mosquitoes, I get so many bites, I itch all day even with the scallion you rub on,” he says “Listen, enough already, will you? You’re just trying to fortify your argument with anything you can think against camp. Next it’ll be horse flies, then poison ivy, then poisonous snakes you hear are around, though I don’t think there are any in all of Maine. I’m sorry, sweetie, but after everything you’ve said so far, I don’t buy your argument.” Tears appear; “I hate you, Daddy,” and she runs outside, minute later the kitchen door slams and she runs to her room. “All I’m asking,” he shouts, “is for you to give it another week and then decide; what the heck’s that?” Then thinks: How’s he supposed to take what she said to him? She was never that harsh before. Well, just a kid her age having a tantrum, not getting what she wants, thinking he’s not being completely fair, and maybe he isn’t, but the hell with it. Later he’ll call her in for dessert, act as if nothing happened, and she’ll be fine, or almost, and probably even apologize without his prompting.
Calls her later and she doesn’t come. Goes to her room. She’s in bed, asleep or pretending. “Deborah, if you want to continue with the numbers where you left off, we can; I won’t butt in till you’re finished. I mean, no butting in; say what you want, and I’ll listen and consider it seriously tonight.” No response. Takes her glasses off, feels around under the covers for a book but doesn’t find any, she didn’t brush her teeth or get in her pajamas but he’s not going to start putting them on her — hasn’t for a couple of years at least — kisses her, turns the night light on and shuts off the overhead.
She gets in his bed around three. “What do you think you’re doing?” “I can’t sleep, and my pillow’s all wet.” “What are you, sweating?” “No.” “Just turn it over.” “Please, Dada.” He doesn’t like her sleeping with him but her voice is so sad, and after what happened before, so he says okay, “Tonight only, now go to sleep without another word.” He gets out of bed. “Where are you going?” “The bathroom,” and he takes his T-shirt and underpants with him and puts them on outside the room.
Morning, she’s snuggled up to him. He gets out of bed, does his exercises in the living room, and later when he wakes her she says “Please don’t send me to camp today.” “Oh come on now.” “Please, I only want to stay home with you, and I promise not to be a bother.” “Okay, today will be the exceptional day off, but you have to leave me the entire morning free, take care of your own needs, all that stuff, and then if I want the afternoon to work to at least the time I would have left to pick you up at camp, that too.” She reads, draws, sets up her easel outside and paints, swings on the swing set, jumps rope, goes down the road several times for mail and when she gets it — he sees all this through his second-floor studio window — knocks on his door. “Want me to leave your mail outside or give it to you by person?” and he says “Just leave it, sweetie, I’m in the middle of something, and thanks.” Makes her lunch and sits opposite her with a coffee and yesterday’s Times, which came in the mail today, and she says “Your cut doesn’t look so ugly anymore; even if it needed a Band-Aid up to last night, you don’t need one now,” and he says “Yeah, seems to be healing nice, and I don’t feel so dopey anymore. That’s what happens when you don’t do anything about it.” After lunch she says “You don’t have to, of course, but if you want can we go to Carter Pond to swim? I’ve been thinking of it all winter,” and he says “Sure, I’ve done enough already, two pages, and I haven’t swum since we got here.”
Swim, diner for fish burgers, play checkers that night. Later: “What do you want for lunch tomorrow?” and she says “When I’m ready to eat it, I’ll tell you.” “I mean for camp.” “Dada, I’m not going to camp.” “You’re going, now don’t give me another argument. We took off one day, it was very nice, but not two.” “You can’t make me,” and he says “Oh, I’ll make you, all right. And I’ll prepare whatever I want you to have for lunch, if you’re not going to help me, now get ready for bed.” When he comes into her room for a mosquito check and to say good night, she says “A story?” He says, looking at something on the wall he thinks is a mosquito but turns out to be the head of a nail, “No story, nothing for you tonight, just go to sleep,” checks some more and turns off the light.