“Like this. Watch closely.”
Peewee observed with wonder as Leo’s ears began performing weird and amazing feats, wiggling and wagging up and down. In a moment the younger boy was giggling at the comical sight, then laughing, and his childish crowing was soon joined by the deeper laughter of the others.
“Now play something!” Peewee shouted, shoving the violin case at Leo. “Go on, play!”
Leo shook his head, his expression clearly stating he had no wish to go on entertaining them.
“Yeah, play somethin’,” urged the Bomber; then they were all yelling for him, pressing and cajoling until he had no choice. With a glance toward Tiger, who’d said hardly anything since they’d come in, Leo unsnapped the catches and laid back the top of the case. With the fingernails of one hand he plucked a tiny flurry of notes from the instrument. They were all waiting. He picked up the violin and began tuning it, making rapid, professional forays on the strings until he seemed satisfied, then tucked it under his chin and began to play. Seated on the edge of Reece’s footlocker, his thin arm bent, the hand and fingers curled upon the butt of the horsehair bow, he played with a faint smile on his mouth, his eyes now flashing, now remote, his head moving with a rhythmic grace all its own as he drew forth a soft, intense melody that held his listeners in thrall.
But the roof of Jeremiah could not contain the sound of his music, nor the walls – how was this possible with all four flaps open to the evening? – and before long, all up and down the line-path they gathered, campers and counselors, on the porches of Hosea and Isaiah and Ob amp;diah and Ezekiel, and of all the cabins of Virtue and High Endeavor, to listen as the music floated out from Jeremiah.
Zipper Tallon heard it in the Dewdrop Inn and, buttoning up, was lured across the field by its sound. Henry Ives, his duties completed, stopped and listened. In Hosea, Gus Klaus put away his Studs Lonigan excerpts to lend an ear, finally abandoning his bunk altogether to take a gander at the music maker in Jeremiah. Ezekielites Dusty Rhoades, Emerson Bean, and Junior Leffingwell did likewise, while over in Three Corner Cove, in the gathering twilight, Honey Oliphant, giving herself a beer shampoo, heard it and wondered.
Then the music became louder and merrier as the fiddler changed his tune. Jumping onto the footlocker, he began playing an antic ditty, and as he played, beating out the time with his foot, he sang the words:
I push the first valve down.
The music goes down and around,
Whoa – ho – ho – ho – ho – ho,
And it comes up here.
Fiddling, all angles and long fingers, with a bright gleam in his eye, he seemed to Tiger like some mad musician at a crossroads fair in a storybook, whose spellbinding music would so enchant the village folk that they must jump up and leap about until they dropped of exhaustion. And, indeed, as the song gained momentum all the campers crowded into Jeremiah were suddenly on their feet, knocking one another about, leaping from bunk to bunk as they sang, faces red and perspiring in the lamplight, the excitement building to a fever pitch with pillows flying through the air and Eddie, who could walk on his hands, proving it.
Then to the scent of pine and citronella that pervaded the cabin was added another odor: the sweet, sickish pungency of tobacco smoke – Rum and Maple, though in the wild confusion no one noticed until the Bomber, dizzy, spun backward toward the porch and collided with Reece Hartsig.
Everything stopped at once, the music, the laughter, the movement, all stopped and every head turned to face the tall figure in the doorway, nattily attired in his military school uniform, the shiny visor of his cap casting a dark lunette across his eyes.
“What’s going on here?” demanded the soft, emphatic voice.
Pandemonium. The visitors to Jeremiah scattered out the back, out the sides of the cabin, seven of the occupants retreated in considerable alarm and confusion to their bunks, while the violinist, still on the footlocker, lowered his instrument slowly, then stepped down and crossed to his bunk. Only Peewee made no move, but stood in the middle of Reece’s rumpled cot, turned to stone.
Either failing to notice or choosing to ignore the newcomer’s presence in the cabin, the counselor directed stern attention to the quivering Peewee. Making fists of his hands, Reece jammed them on his hips, widening an already broad set of shoulders.
“Get… off… my… bed,” he commanded, still speaking softly. Peewee seemed to shrink visibly before getting down, presenting a sheepish and pathetic figure by anybody’s standard.
“All right, Kemo Sabe,” Reece said, now snapping out the words, “suppose you tell me what you think you’re up to.”
“I wasn’t doin’ nuthin’, Big Chief, honest,” came the plaintive response.
“The cap. Take it off.”
Peewee did so.
“Now put it back where you got it from.”
Again the boy obeyed.
“Now the jock.” Again Peewee did as ordered.
“Now come here.” Digging into his uniform pocket, Reece produced a shiny quarter and handed it to the boy. Peewee, who had no idea why he should be so rewarded, merely blinked.
“Toss it on the bed.” Reece indicated his cot.
Peewee again did as he was told; the coin dropped softly amid the slackened bedclothes.
“Fix it, spud. Stretch it till that quarter bounces.”
The Jeremians watched while Peewee hustled around the corners of the bed, jumping over the footlocker as he tugged and pulled the blanket so the quarter bounced. When this was seen to, Reece reached out with a long arm, turned the offender over his knee and gave him a sound whack on his bottom.
“Get the idea?” he said, setting Peewee upright.
“What idea?” the boy asked in an outraged tone, his eyes sparkling with telltale tears.
“No more jumping on the counselor’s cot. You don’t belong here anyway. Get back up the line where you do belong.” He marched Peewee to the door. “Okay?” he said, holding out the quarter.
Peewee ignored the peace offering and sprang out onto the line-path. When he had put sufficient distance between himself and his tormentor he pulled up short and from the depths of his wounded pride shouted defiantly, “I’m gonna tell my sister! I’m gonna tell Honey you got a lousy letter from Nancy Rider and it stinks of perfume and it’s got a big fat lipstick mark on the back!”
He ran away among the trees. No one laughed. Turning back into the cabin Reece noted the envelope on his pillow. He picked it up and was about to pull the flap when his eye came to rest on the new boy. He slipped the letter under the pillow for later, then, straightening, said, “And who might this be?”
Leo opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out, and he swallowed with a noisy gulp.
Tiger was quick with the explanation that this was Stanley Wagner’s replacement. Reece said nothing at first, merely looked the new arrival up and down with a bland expression. He removed his cap and tucked it away on his shelf, then glanced in the mirror, running his palms over his hair, which gleamed with blond highlights. Satisfied, he turned back to the new boy, withholding his greeting for a moment longer. Leo gulped again, his face turned red, and he dropped his look to the floor, still unable to think of anything to say.
“How is it he’s here tonight instead of tomorrow?” Though Reece looked at Phil for an explanation, again it was Tiger who replied, mentioning bus schedules and – giving the new boy’s name. A faint frown appeared between Reece’s sun-whitened brows.
“Wackeem,” he repeated, thoughtfully, while Leo stared wordlessly back at him. No one presumed to speak; the moment drew out. Finally, Reece broke the spell, by putting out his hand; when Leo took it he felt his own engulfed.
“Welcome to Jeremiah, camper,” said the counselor crisply, and gave Leo a curt nod.
This salutation ventured, Reece engaged in a series of neatly executed moves, changing out of his uniform to his regular camp outfit. Wary and silent, unsure of what might happen next, the boys all watched as the ritual was performed. “You weren’t due till tomorrow,” Reece commented as he stripped off his neatly pressed shirt and shrugged on a sweatshirt. “We’re not ready for you.”