Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Leo agreed; Kelsoe’s Pond was indeed a fine spot. That Tiger also considered it such gave him considerable satisfaction. He had discovered the place several days ago, while on a spider hunt. Spurred on by Oats Gurley, who had promised to put Leo’s accumulated arachids on permanent display in the Nature Lodge (and to award him and Jeremiah a generous number of happy points for every new addition), he had visited here several mornings since, slipping away on a solitary “nature walk,” his violin and music case in tow, along with a couple of empty codfish boxes in his canvas knapsack (a loan from Tiger), while the majority of the campers were hard at work in the crafts barn, banging away at copper ashtrays to take home to their Uncle Louies.

“What d’you think of my latest prize?” he asked tentatively, gesturing toward his most recent find, a black-and-gold specimen whose web glittered in the sun like a diamond necklace suspended between twin stalks of milkweed, gossamer filaments spun out of the abdominal workings of a creature the size of a quarter. For the past half-hour the spider had been industriously engaged in this miraculous act of manufacture, tossing out the silken threads to create the delicate design characteristic of her species.

Tiger conceded that the spider was worth Leo’s time and patience, and Leo lay back, fingers laced behind his ears, well pleased. Though Tiger did not share his fascination for spiders – indeed, he had shown a decided aversion to them -this morning, sprawling companionably beside Leo on the turf, he, too, watched closely to see what wonders the little creature would perform next.

A moment more, and her preliminary work was done; she scurried to the upper quadrant of the newly fashioned web, where, camouflaged by the flickering light and shade, she sat waiting for her prey. Before long an errant, pale-winged bug came flitting by, a poor, innocent bug up to no bad, but not a careful bug at all. It bumped into the web head-on, and in a flash the spider abandoned her corner, scrambling down the ladder of her web to pounce on the trapped insect. In ' his notebook, Leo detailed what happened next: the quick injection of paralyzing fluids, the last flutter of hapless wings, the wrapping of the victim in more filament until it resembled a miniature mummy. At last the spider dragged her dinner to the heart of the web, where she deposited it for safekeeping; then, having resumed her corner, she settled down again to wait.

Having rounded out his notes with a quick sketch of the spider’s web, Leo capped his pen and lay back, reaching his hands over his head and stretching his body like a cat. He really was tall for his age, Tiger thought, secretly envying him his height; he wished his own arms and legs were longer; his physical size, or its lack, had always 'been to him a disadvantage, and something told him he’d never see six feet, never be tall like Reece Hartsig. But then, as his dad always said, Napoleon had been forced to deal with the same problem, and look how far he got. You just couldn’t give up on things. “Never Say Die,” that was Tiger’s motto. He had got it from the famous Count Von Luckner, the crafty German naval officer whose ship, the Sea Devil, had wreaked havoc with Allied shipping during the war. When the Count came to Pequot Landing to lecture, Tiger had even got an autograph on a picture of the famous vessel: “Never Say Die, Tiger Abernathy.” Tiger was determined he would not.

“I kept a diary once,” he remarked.

This revelation interested Leo. “Why did you quit?” he asked.

Tiger chuckled. “I was doing so many things every day I never could find the time to write them all down.”

Leo could see how this might be so: a fellow like Tiger Abernathy was always busy, with a dozen irons in the fire. Was there anything he wasn’t interested in? A patrol leader in the Boy Scouts, he was also active in Christian Youth Fellowship and the Junior Grange and the Civic Guard. He had, moreover, a number of time-consuming interests and hobbies – stamp-collecting, model-airplane- and boatbuilding – while the complicated layout of his electric train set was known to fill half the attic. All in all, he was a real powerhouse, with his bright, quick, lighting-up smile, and the gleeful laugh that he made such generous use of. What he lacked in physical size he made up for in character, and compared with him, all the boys Leo had known at the orphanage – even his pal Arnie Kretchmer (“Kretch the Wretch”) – seemed commonplace and lackluster.

Leo congratulated himself on his good fortune. On that first evening in camp he hadn’t been at all sure how he would fare at Tiger’s hands. Tiger had been helpful enough, but he’d said so little, seemingly weighing “the new boy” in his mind, pondering whether they would be friends or not. And now they were friends, sort of. Leo felt it was so. Sometimes when he came here to the pond, Tiger would show up – like this morning. Leo frequently asked himself why the most popular boy in camp would bother with the likes of him, an orphan from Pitt Institute. Maybe he just felt sorry for him (Tiger was the kind of guy who always stuck up for the underdog); still, to be singled out for his attention was deeply gratifying, and in the end Leo decided it was probably his music that had won Tiger over (he had laughed a lot at Leo’s rendition of “The Music Goes ’Round and Around”).

Now, grinning his crooked, saw-toothed grin, Tiger said, “So tell me. How come you were trying to fly?”

Leo’s response was simple. “It’s the thing I want most in the world – except for two other things.”

“Like what?”

“First, to own a dog.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Name it.”

“Didn’t you ever have one?”

“Sure. Once.” Leo blew out his cheeks; his eyelids fluttered and closed.

“What happened to him?”

“Got killed.”

“How?”

“Curiosity.”

Tiger thought that was the cat, but before he could comment Leo went on.

“Actually he got run over by a truck.”

“Gee, that’s tough. Hit and run?”

“No. It was my f-father’s truck.”

“Gee, I bet he felt bad.”

“Not so’s you’d notice. If you asked me, I’d say he enjoyed it.”

“What?”

“You had to know him. He never liked Butch. He didn’t like him in the house. Butch knew…”

“Knew what?”

“Butch knew Rudy. That was his name, Rudy. His black heart. Rudy was the only person Butch didn’t like. Rudy knew it. He was just looking for a chance to do him a bad turn.”

“So he deliberately…?”

Leo nodded somberly. “Butch was lying in the driveway. He liked the warm concrete. Rudy backed the truck out and just ran over him as nice as you please.”

“But – maybe he didn’t see him.”

“He saw him all right. Butch was asleep. Rudy gunned his motor and hit him before he could get out of the way.”

Tiger’s eyelids lowered, his lips stretched in a grim line. He remained that way, wondering why Leo had made so personal a confession on such short acquaintance. It was, he decided, one way to cement a friendship.

Leo spoke again. “That night I brushed all the dog hair off of Albert-”

Tiger’s lids lifted again. “You mean – Albert was Butch’s pillow?”

Leo nodded. “I cut the hairs up real fine and whenever I carried the plates in from the kitchen I sprinkled some of them on Rudy’s food.”

“Did it make him sick?”

“Not so’s you’d notice; but it made me feel better.”

Tiger smiled, then grew thoughtful. “How’d he die?” he asked.

“I just told you – oh, you mean Rudy. He had a bad accident. In that same truck he ran Butch over with. The funny thing was,” Leo went on, “I always thought for sure I’d die before Butch did. Then, when I was dead, he would come and lie by me on my funeral pyre. You know – like a Viking’s funeral.”