Unfortunately, however, that night had been a repetition of the first, with another bad dream that had again disturbed the cabin and left Leo wrung out with imagined horror, as well as the butt of more jokes, especially from Phil, who now let it be known that in his view, the new boy was fast proving that he had inherited not only the bunk of Stanley Wagner but his shoes as well.
Deeply shamed, Leo made feeble apologies, but how could he explain? Whom could he confide in, tell about the dreams that haunted his sleep and woke him up screaming? It was the same old story all over again, only in a new setting.
At the Institute, Superintendent Poe had repeatedly cautioned him: “These dreams of yours are affecting your daily work, my boy. We must do something about them. It doesn’t do to be made prey to foolish fancies. I shall arrange for you to talk to our Doctor Percival, he’ll get you over this childish business quick enough…”
So Leo had seen Dr Percival, who asked him to talk about his dreams.
Leo tried: dark, fearful, frightening, something large and hideous waiting in the dark to seize and devour him.
“What sort of thing?” pursued the doctor. He might as well have asked, Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral? Leo tried to describe it but failed; it was nameless, springing from who knew what hidden corner of his mind. He tried to picture it; couldn’t do that either, just… big and dark and terrifying.
“You must just make up your mind to stop dreaming,” Dr Percival had concluded. “Or simply try to dream nice, pleasant dreams, hm? It’s as easy to dream happy dreams as unhappy ones. Just make up your mind.” He wagged his head sadly. “Until you do, I am afraid you will never grow up. You will always be a boy, with a boy’s thoughts and a boy’s fears. Therefore you must govern your thoughts, discipline yourself, put on blinders and reins.”
But the doctor had no answer when Leo asked him how he was to accomplish this, when every day he could hear the laughter of the boys echoing along those green grim corridors, and the mocking jingle they loved to sing:
Oh my oh me oh, a crazy boy is Leo Oh me oh my oh, his nightmares make him cry-o…
He would have given anything to be able to get away from that chant, to find someplace where no one knew anything about him, someplace where he could forget. And, miraculously, now he had his chance: Moonbow Lake was waiting.
“Hey, Nutbread, those two old farts want you in administration office pronto.” This from Measles, the head proctor and Pitt tattler, who poked his ugly puss in at the dormitory door, his loud voice echoing in the long, Spartanly furnished room.
Leo had been pasted with the name Nutbread for so long that he answered to it readily enough, and he had leaped from his cot to make tracks to the administration office, where he found thin, prim, dry-as-dust Supervisor Poe seated behind his desk; with him, thinner, primmer, dustier Miss Meekum. Mr Poe eyed him across his glasses rims and inquired starchily how Leo thought he might enjoy spending a few weeks in the country, then without waiting for a reply began explaining how, through the merciful intercession of the Society of the Friends of Joshua, who maintained an affiliation with the Pitt Institute for Boys, a place had been made available at a summer camp on Moonbow Lake.
The matter was settled inside fifteen minutes. Miss Meekum helped him to assemble his paltry possessions and put them into the cardboard suitcase he’d been loaned, with its broken corners and its fake-alligator-paper hide. In addition, two army blankets, stiff with age, had been made up into a bundle along with Albert, without whom he hadn’t slept a night since Butch got killed.
“Regrettably, there is no time to sew nametapes in your things,” she said. “You must take care and not lose them, clothes are hard to replace these days.” And, as though to apologize for the lack of printed identification in his underwear, she pressed on him a fresh cake of Lifebuoy soap, and a celluloid soap “keeper.” “If you are frugal with your soap it should last all summer. It’s really a wonderful opportunity,” she went on, drawing her hanky through her ringless fingers. “Just imagine – a lovely lake and green trees and meadows and…” She paused in her recitation of the charms to be found in the Connecticut wildwood, her wrinkled face sobering while behind her pinched-on steel glasses her eyes, like the eyes of a doe, swam liquidly at the thought of his journeying all of fifty miles away for eight weeks of camping. “You’ll be able to get a fresh start, Leo, in a new place, where you can look forward, not back. And, please, no talk about…” She trailed off, her lids fluttering. He regarded her solemnly, waiting for her to finish her sentence. "… about the bridge and all of that. You must erase life’s blackboard and put the past behind you. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” he had said, thinking how silly she was, Elsie Meekum. Foolish words just seemed to come bubbling out of her like Nehi rootbeer when you shook up the bottle.
But there was a bridge, wasn’t there? And carbonated though she might be at times, Miss Meekum was also often wise and prudent. He must remember.
“And be truthful at all times,” she went on. “You know your penchant for – exaggeration.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And don’t forget to practice your music, practice every day. You’ll be rewarded and the boys will like you for it. Play that pretty Paganini piece you’ve worked so hard on. Promise, now.”
Yes, he promised again. He was always promising her. Following these cautionary words there was further bounty as she presented him with, first, a fake tortoiseshell toothbrush holder, then a blue-covered spiral notebook with lined pages, a fountain pen, and a bottle of Parker blue-black Quink.
“Take these, my dear, and keep a record of the happy time that lies ahead of you,” she said. “A few jottings every day, and long afterward, when you are older, you will be glad to have such a memento.” She thrust out her face to kiss him.
He had shivered at the touch of her withered lips, unused as he was to such intimate contact, and his eye caught the flecks of her pink face powder as they sifted from her cheeks. Poor, shriveled, woebegone Miss Meekum – yet he honored her gende claim on him, for who else was there for him to love?
Besides, he owed her; he knew that. Owed her plenty. Foolish, flat-chested spinster though she was, she’d proved a mother to him when he’d had no other, w ^ r hen his own mother was gone… gone across the L Street Bridge.
Suddenly he was sobbing, his body racked by painful spasms. Stop, he told himself, don’t be such a jerk. She’s dead and gone – dead and gone, and where’s the help for that? Who had the magic to bring her back? He lifted his tearstained face and pulled away bits of straw and grass. This wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a crybaby.
Once more, high in the sycamore tree, the mockingbird offered its lighthearted song, its practiced notes interrupting his thoughts. He stiffened his spine, staring at the violin in his hand. If he wasn’t going to practice baseball he had better practice some more music – not just because he’d promised Miss Meekum he would but because he had been entered as a solo performer in the Major Bowes Amateur Night contest. He was a cinch to take a prize, Tiger had declared, and if he did he’d win extra points for Jeremiah. Extra points meant Reece would be pleased, and if Reece was pleased, everybody would be pleased.
Taking up his violin again, he fiddled an impromptu accompaniment to the mockingbird’s song, and when the singing stopped, Leo went on, segueing into an old favorite: “Poor Butterfly.” Of all the tunes from his earlier years, the ones his mother used to sing to him, this was the song he knew best. It had been her favorite; she’d heard it in a Broadway musical show she’s seen back during the World War. Such a wistful song, too; she always said it made her want to cry. Now, though she was gone, he remembered the song and played it often.
Poor Butterfly!