Strangers by Mort Castle Read Free Book Online Page B

well for the two of us, Michael.”
    “I think so, too.”
    “And I’m sure the girls had a good time at camp.”
    “Sure,” Michael agreed, “ghost stories around the campfire, canoe races and nature hikes. They probably got to weave a lanyard or a potholder in the crafts shop. Say, we’re talking about real adventures!”
    Beth laughed, then became serious. “You know, living in the suburbs, Marcy and Kim get a fairly narrow view of life…”
    “Uh-huh, know what you mean…”
    “So,” Beth continued, “I hope they met all kinds of different people at camp…”
    He was unprepared, for once completely off-guard. He took a drink of coffee and Beth said, “Maybe they learned that not everyone is the same after all.”
    The laugh corkscrewed up from the center of his chest. He tried to swallow, to smother the laughter, and could not. He coughed and gagged. Coffee sprayed from his mouth and his nose. Tears stung his eyes.
    Beth was on her feet, slapping his back. “Oh, I’ll get you some water.”
    Sputtering and choking, he gulped the water. Not everyone is the same after all —another volcanic laugh threatened to erupt and he struggled for control. Oh, Beth, not everyone is the same— I am not —and summer camp is the ideal place to learn that— I know. I did!
    Feeling as though there was a fuzzy tennis ball wedged between his tonsils, Michael croaked, “Wrong pipe.”
    “Okay now?”
    “Sure, I’m fine.”
    But the laugh kept trying to seep out of him, emerging as a clearing of the throat or a mock cough, and he was glad to get out of the house a few minutes later.
    When he was in the car, driving to Superior Chemical Company’s office in Oakwood— when he was alone —he at last had his laugh, fullblown and wild and true.
    Michael remembered summer camp, Camp Bethel, and Jan Pretre, and Alvin Burdell, Alvin, the very first.
    Michael Louden remembered when he was 12 years old…
    The screen door rasped like a parrot— Ahrkee —andtheyoung man stepped into Cabin Three, the door clack-rattling shut behind him. He was tall. His black hair was trimmed in a neat flat-top . A hooked wrinkle connected his heavy eyebrows above his straight nose.
    The young man’s deep-set, dark blue eyes went down the row of beds and the boys assigned to them on the left, then up the rows on the right. He had responsibility for eight boys in all. He was a volunteer counselor at Camp Bethel, a Baptist church sponsored program that gave kids low cost fun and regular religious training.
    Michael thought the young man’s eyes spent a second or two longer on him than on the others, but he could not be sure. He would be careful. He was always careful.
    “My name’s Jan Pretre, guys.” The counselor had a deep and friendly voice. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together the next couple of weeks.”
    “Hi, Jan!” squalled the fat boy who had the bed opposite Michael’s. Michael had sat next to him on the bus ride. The fat boy was named Alvin Burdell. There was a huge, red-brown birthmark over his left ear that showed through the fuzz of his crew cut, and he smelled like cheese.
    “Howya doin’?” Jan Pretre nodded at Alvin. He told the boys that once they were unpacked, he’d take them down to the lake for a dip.
    After their swim, they had free time, and, after that, lunch. The camp director, Pastor Bill, spent so much time saying grace that the unappetizing food turned into barely edible cold lumps.
    That afternoon, a kid from Number Six punched Michael on the arm, a good one, knuckle out, twisting into the bicep. He was looking for a fight, but Michael did not fight back; he ran away.
    He never fought.
    Lights out came at nine o’clock.
    At midnight, Alvin Burdell’s crying woke up Cabin Three. Alvin had wet his bed.
    Steve Dawes, at thirteen the biggest and oldest Cabin Three camper, hollered, “You fat-guts! Stinking up the place!”
    “I can’t help it!” Alvin wailed.
    Michael lay on his back, not