Jill Churchill - Fear of Frying

It was cool enough that the thought of swimming made Jane shiver, but in the summer it would be a different matter.

“We're lucky that there's a very slow, gentle slope here," Benson was saying. "And over there, the roped-off area is only four feet deep. That's where we give beginner swimming lessons. Oh, I almost forgot to mention poison ivy."

“There's poison ivy here?" Marge asked.

“There shouldn't be," Benson said with a smile. "I've conducted a war against it ever since we arrived. I don't think there's any left, but I have a handout with drawings and photos of it for you. If anybody sees so much as a leaf of it, please let me know.”

Jane glanced around at the group. Liz, naturally, had a clipboard and was taking notes like mad. She even had a tape measure and marked down the height of the lifeguard tower. Bob Rycraft had gone down to the shoreline and was smiling and nodding, no doubt picturing the lake full of happy kids who would go home and say no to drugs and study like mad, all because of two glorious weeks at camp. Al Flowers had wandered over to the tower and, hands in pockets, was looking up as if contemplating someone other than himself climbing it.

The Claypool brothers were standing together, talking quietly, probably about cars, not camp, Jane guessed. John, the big, blond, beefy younger brother, had his hands clasped behind his back and was looking down, nudging a rock around with his toe. It was a curiously subservient pose for the bigger, brasher man to take.

Meanwhile, Sam's wife, Marge Claypool, was glancing uneasily at the dense woods, looking very nervous, and John's wife, Eileen, had found a log to sit on. She'd taken off her shoe and was massaging her foot.

Benson, apparently realizing that he was being largely ignored, stopped explaining the lake and safety regulations and left them to their own thoughts for a few minutes before saying, "Okay, let's go back up the hill and look at the Convention Center.”

Eileen Claypool grunted slightly as she laboriously leaned forward to put her shoe back on and gather up all her loose belongings. Even for this tour, she was loaded up with jewelry and tote bags.

The Convention Center turned out to be a large, plain building to the north of the main lodge. It was clearly newer than the rest of the camp: two stories, white clapboard and faintly naked-looking. Though neat and freshly painted, it had no shutters, no foundation plantings, almost no ornamentation at all.

“A bit of an abomination, isn't it?" Shelley said under her breath.

“It certainly doesn't fit in very well," Jane responded. "Sort of like a habited nun at a cocktail party."

“Yes!" Shelley said. "The kind of habit with the big white winged headgear.”

Either Benson or the architect had attempted to make the big building look friendlier by adding a porch outside the front door. But it was little, flimsy, out of proportion, and looked as if it had blown up against the building and was merely resting there for a moment before moving on about its business.

The inside of the Convention Center was much Like the outside: plain, clean, practical, and aggressively boring. The ground floor contained a dining area with a practical, spotlessly clean expanse of blue linoleum flooring, white Formica tables, and folding chairs with blue seats that just missed matching the floor and consequently made both look shabby. The rest of the area was for exhibits and meetings. There was sturdy carpet here and lots of room dividers.

Overall, Jane found it terribly bland and depressing, especially in contrast to the cozy cabin she and Shelley were sharing. But the kids wouldn't care. They'd be outdoors most of the time and more interested in each other than the building. If kids cared about their surroundings, she reasoned, their own bedrooms at home wouldn't look quite so much like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

Benson led them downstairs, where there were locked storage bins that looked like little jails and a very large room with a whole fleet of room dividers on wheels. Benson explained that the dividers were specially designed to provide soundproofing, so many small meeting rooms could be constructed by just sliding them around.

Next they went from a center staircase to the second-floor dormitory area. A long, single hallway stretched both ways. He opened a couple doors along it to let them look at the rooms, which were sparse but neat. Each had a single bathroom with a shower stall, a big window that looked out over the woods, either two or three single beds in various arrangements, a functional, indestructible desk, and several chairs. It looked like one of the dormitories of Jane's youth, and she found herself wondering how any adult could survive staying in someplace so essentially "institutional" without going screaming mad.

Shelley was watching her reaction. "Bad vibes?" she asked.

“Very bad," Jane admitted. "And I don't know why. I think I must have been in a mental institute that looked just like this in a previous life.”

Shelley nodded. "Or a sanatorium where frail Victorian ladies went to die of tuberculosis. Still, I don't think the kids would care. And when they get their own 'stuff' in here, it'll look more cluttered, if not better.”

When they came back out into the hallway, the rest of the group was milling around, seemingly as anxious to get away as Shelley and Jane were — all, that is, except Liz, armed with clipboard and asking Benson about heating and cooling, elevator-inspection schedules, handicapped access and fire regulations and all the practical considerations Jane never would have thought of.

Al Flowers was standing next to them, leaning against the wall and watching his wife. "Isn't she a wonder?" he said admiringly.

He was just what Jane needed at that moment. A big, gooey jolt of contentment. A man who was proud of his wife. "You're a good man, Al Flowers!" she said with a smile.

They gathered up Bob Rycraft, who seemed determined to enthusiastically examine every room, and left the building. "Now we're in for a bit of a walk," Benson warned them cheerfully, "but it'll be worth it."

“I'll bet," Eileen Claypool muttered. She had developed a serious limp.

The group returned to the main lodge, circled it, and continued south along the road that ran past their cabins. Benson took it slow and easy, allowing them to stop in their cabins and get cameras (Liz and Shelley), binoculars (Marge), Band-Aids (Eileen), and take bathroom breaks (Jane). Just beyond the cabins, the road turned into more of a path and rose slightly.

“Look at Marge," Shelley whispered.

Jane glanced back. Marge was walking extremely close to Sam, surveying the woods around them with quick glances. "She doesn't like nature much, does she?" Jane whispered back. "I guess the outdoors just isn't for everyone."

“She's been jumpy the whole time we've been around her," Shelley said. "It's odd. I don't know her well, but I've been on lots of committees with her. She's always seemed shy and retiring, but more placid than nervous."

“Well, there was that face she saw at the window.”

Shelley shook her head. "No, I noticed it before she had her screaming fit. It's like she was already scared of something. Or somebody.”

Jane looked at Shelley sharply for a moment, then laughed. "You've let the dreary atmosphere of the Conference Center get to you. Next thing you'll be wanting to stay up late with the lights off and tell ghost stories. And maybe drop aspirin in your soft drink to get drunk.”

The next stop in the tour of the grounds was much more pleasant. It was one of three campfire sites.

“We believe that preparing and eating food outdoors can be enjoyable," Benson said as they came up the last small rise. "It doesn't have to be hot dogs and hamburgers and potato chips. It's possible to cook a really fine meal over a campfire. This is where we'll be eating dinner tonight, and I'll be demonstrating some outdoor cooking techniques you might enjoy.”