Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Leo swallowed; felt a rush of panic. Suddenly, inexplicably, his fingers began to tremble, and his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat. Then, mustering his courage, he took a deep breath, shut his eyes for a moment, and began.

Almost from the instant he first drew his bow across the strings, the audience was aware that something had happened. The performer was no longer exhibiting the ease and assurance he had demonstrated before. His eyes had taken on a harried expression, never lighting anywhere, but always returning, as if drawn by a magnet, to the back of the room, where Reece still leaned against the post, his arm around Honey’s waist.

A jarring off-note set teeth on edge, an unexpected sharpness, then, quickly, a second mistake. The bow faltered, slurring clumsily across the strings, producing a shocking series of dissonances. Ma glanced at Dagmar, who stiffened in her chair. Tiger’s brow was creased with bewilderment.

Then the final humiliation: Leo broke off midway through the bridge, halting with dismaying finality, and just stood there, awkward and embarrassed, blinking into the light. For a moment it seemed he might take up his melody again, but instead the violin slid away from the notch of his shoulder. He made a short, oblique movement backward, paused for a moment, then, clutching the violin in one hand, the bow in the other, he swerved abruptly and headed for the nearest exit. Eyes still lowered, shoulders hiked up, he reached the door, fumbled with the screen, trying to pull it toward him when it wanted pushing, then, outside, fled into the engulfing dark, while, in the excitement that greeted his precipitate departure, Pa rose from his seat and, hands clasped, announced the final presentation. Above the sound of the audience, clearly audible, came the voice of Claude Moriarity: “Wacko forgot his machine-gun case.”

His joke produced a wave of jeers and laughter that spread throughout the hall until Pa had to call “All right, now – all right, now,” so the closing act might begin. Only Dagmar Kronborg, silent and rigid in her place, and Tiger Abernathy, flushed with embarrassment at the humiliation of his friend, refused to join in the merriment as onstage Joey Ripley of Malachi and his ocarina had a go at “Dardanella.”

July 17, the date of the annual Water Carnival, had a big red circle drawn around it on Ma Starbuck’s calendar, for not only was the event another long-standing Friend-Indeed tradition, attracting families and friends of campers from as far away as Hartford, · but it was also customarily attended by the Elders of the Joshua Society and their spouses. Some had arrived in time for morning chapel in order to hear Pa’s sermon, and afterward to attend Sunday dinner in the dining hall, an occasion that proved somewhat embarrassing to Leo, who was called to the staff table in order to shake hands with Dr Dunbar and his wife. Blushing and stammering, he obeyed Pa’s promptings in matters of appreciation, thanking the four-eyed pair for his Moonbow summer, and they in turn beamed and called him “our little orphan boy,” after which he stumbled away, relieved to have got through it all.

As it did every Sunday noontime, even before the dinner hour ended, the lower playing field had begun filling up with honking automobiles disgorging visitors in a holiday mood – uncles and aunts and cousins swelling the ranks of parents, smoothing the wrinkles out of their sticky garments after the drive from the city, and wide-eyed little sisters trying to pick out big brothers from among the throng of campers. Some of the moms (as they had on previous Sundays) displayed to other, lesser cooks fhe fresh baked goods they’d brought along, while their spouses, in straw skimmers, two-tone shoes, and jackets with swing-backs, glad-handed one another and said things like:

“Swell day for the race, huh?”

“Which race?”

“The human race!” Oh boy!

Soon the line of vehicles bordered the entire length of the field, clear to the end of the Harmony unit, and by the time the boys got down to the lower camp the whole place had a festive air. Among the last to leave the dining hall was Leo, who along with Eddie Fiske had pulled waiter’s duty, and who had to pass inspection, not only with Oats Gurley, but with Bullnuts Moriarity, dining hall “captain” for the week.

“Hey, Wacko,” he bawled, as Leo headed for the door. “Whyn’tcha play us another tune on your ukulele!”

Leo ignored the crack, but as he hiked down the road with Eddie, who chattered away in his eager fashion, Leo scarcely heard him, still feeling the sting of Moriarity’s remark and lost in thoughts of his own. Whatever foolish hopes he had entertained that his contribution to Major Bowes Night would redeem his reputation at Friend-Indeed after his failure to go off the diving tower had come to naught, the success of the skit (sixty points for Jeremiah) having been vitiated by his embarrassing performance afterward, which had made him a laughingstock. How, he asked himself, how could something that had begun with such promise have gone so awry? Why had the sudden appearance of Reece and Honey caused his fingers to become as wax, the notes to blur in his mind, turning what should have been a rousing success into the single most humiliating experience of his life?

After stumbling out of the lodge in shame and mortification, he had hidden out at the infirmary dock, where he was sure no one would bother looking for him. But he was wrong; Tiger and the Bomber had tracked him down. When he tried to thank them for their support Tiger had merely winked. “ ‘All for one, one for all,’ ” he had said. “Isn’t that right, Bomber?” And that had made Leo feel special – more than a Jeremian, one of the Three Musketeers.

They had coaxed him back to the cabin, where he was forced to face his cabin-mates. No one had said much while they were getting ready for bed, but after taps there had been fits of giggles sputtering in the dark. Mercifully, Reece had not been present; Phil announced that he’d gone off somewhere in his roadster – with Honey or without, who could say? Lying awake, Leo imagined them together laughing about him, heads close, Reece touching, holding her, nuzzling her neck, smelling her cologne, whispering in her ear, she making jokes about Wacko Wackeem; pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey Leo.

Strangely, however, breakfast the next morning had come and gone with no mention by Reece of Major Bowes. It was almost as if, having revenged himself for Leo’s violation of Jeremiah’s hard-and-fast principle of teamwork by showing up in that disquieting way at the lodge, the counselor had made his point – whatever point that might be. And no one else had said anything more on the subject either (except Ma, who asked why she hadn’t heard Leo practicing; he needed to replace a broken string, he told her) until last night’s powwow, before the torches were lit for the second biweekly council fire. Then Reece had given his boys one of his pep talks, announcing that “all things considered” they’d “done good” in the last week, though, unfortunately, the results of the Major Bowes Amateur Night had been less than expected: Jeremiah had certainly taken top honors in the skit department, but had lost the hoped-for points from Leo’s recital (Hatton’s “Insidious Ice Cream Cone” had scored first). Still, he thought he could “say without fear of contradiction” that, though they were going to have to “sweat their underpants” to “bring home the bacon” in the next day’s competitions, if they all “pulled together” they would doubtless pick up enough points to “erase the most recent blot from the family escutcheon.” He didn’t have to remind them – did he? – that, as would be announced officially tonight, Jeremiah still stood behind Malachi in points.