Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

By this time the crush inside the cabin had become considerable, and Leo, seeing that Miss Meekum and Mr Poe were in safe hands, ducked outside, where he found the Bomber leaning on the porch rail and observing the arrival of yet another vehicle, a Pierce-Arrow with black lacquered fenders and a dark-green cab taller than that of any of the other autos on the field. “It’s Dagmar,” the Bomber informed him as the chauffeur, a coloured man wearing a straw hat and no jacket (“His name’s Augie,” said the Bomber), got out and opened the rear door, and Leo recognized Ma’s friend from Major Bowes Night -witness to his humiliation. He had decided when he first saw her that in no way could Dagmar Kronborg be called conventional, and now, in close proximity, he found her both compelling and intimidating. Her blue eyes sparkled with such a bright blueness – keen eyes that missed nothing. He suspected she might be older than she looked: sixty-five? seventy, maybe? She had salt-and-pepper hair and leathery skin, tanned and wrinkled, and beyond a careless use of lipstick on her puckered lips she wore no makeup. He was intrigued by the husky timbre of her voice and the forceful energy behind it. Her English bore only traces of her Swedish origins, and when she laughed the sound was a rich, robust explosion of mirth.

“Hello – hello, all,” she called, nodding to the lineup of boys and adults who now crowded the porch of Jeremiah for the express purpose, it seemed, of greeting her arrival.

“Well, Dag, how are you?” Big Rolfe pushed his way through and enfolded her in a bear-like embrace, loudly kissing her.

“I’m fine – but don’t call me Dag. I don’t like it.” She gave him a sock on his shoulder and put her cheek out for Joy to kiss. “And here’s Mr Jack-in-the-Box himself,” she added, as Reece sprang out the side of the cabin to land in front of her.

“Hello, Auntie – How are you?” He threw his arms around her and, lifting her off her feet, bussed her roundly on both cheeks. “Come on up to the porch and take a load off. It’s time to catch Dad’s Sunday broadcast.”

Nearly every Sunday afternoon around this time, Reece’s father tuned in to the weekly preachments of Father Coughlin, The “Radio Priest,” whose multitude of admirers were convinced he was America’s savior and would keep its people from falling victim to the Red Menace. Since this host of advocates included Pa Starbuck as well as Big Rolfe, not many at Friend-Indeed disparaged the prelate openly, though Fritz Auerbach had declared that the man was a rabble-rouser and demagogue, and should be silenced.

Dagmar, evidently, was not a Coughlin admirer either. While the priest held forth on how Franklin Delano “Rosenfeld” was “selling America short” – Rolfe had thrown open every door of his car “so all could hear” -she excused herself and marched over to the fountain for a drink. Leo stepped up beside her and gallantly pushed the button, and as she straightened and blotted her lips, accepting his courtesy as a matter of course, she found his eyes studying her.

“Eh? What’s this?” she demanded. “Do you think I’m funny-looking, then? You’ll see a lot funnier sights before you grow up, young man – and learn some manners!”

Leo was speechless in the face of his outburst. He felt his face blazing scarlet, and mumbled an apology.

"Gode Gud,” Dagmar exclaimed in Swedish, lifting her glass to her eye. “It’s the violinist. Now, why didn’t I recognize you? What a stupid old thing I am!” Leo was mortified – she had noticed him, then, at Major Bowes, and now recalled his shame – but she cocked her head at him and in a quicksilver change of course, she said, “You were very amusing in the skit the other evening, too – very funny. He was,” she assured the cluster of visitors who had been watching the exchange. “And he thought the whole thing up himself,” she added. “How do I know that? Because Ma told me.”

Before any more could be said, the voice of Hap Holliday – its stentorian tones enhanced by a megaphone – was heard from the waterfront, inviting guests to come and be seated in the council ring. The afternoon’s events were about to begin. As Peewee Oliphant came pelting down the line-path, waving his arms to a fare-thee-well and hollering for all campers to get a wiggle on – Coach wanted all boat-parade participants at the lodge in five minutes to get into costume – a couple of shrill blasts from Reece’s whistle galvanized the Jeremians to heed the summons. Then Reece himself headed for the dock to confer with Rex and Hap on matters pertaining to the swim competition, while Dagmar rejoined the Hartsigs and the entire adult contingent connected with Jeremiah headed toward the council ring. Even Father Coughlin could offer no competition to the prospect ahead of them. The Abernathys, Leo observed, had Mr Poe and Miss Meekum in tow, and when the cabin was empty of visitors, he scrambled about, snatching up items of gear, and ran off to join the others, forgetting his humiliation, for the moment at least, in anticipation of things to come.

All around the council ring, campers, counselors, and guests a-like were dispersed among the tiers, the overflow scattered along the waterfront, the ladies, wafting improvised fans (pleated programs), ensconced in folding chairs, the gentlemen seated on cushions on the ground beside them. And here was Pa Starbuck making his official progress through the assemblage of parents and guests, nodding and smiling and generally behaving as if all this – every glint of sunlight, every lap of the waves, every glittering splash and dive, every foot of cloudless sky, every joyful camper and approving parent – was the work of his own hand and no other’s – until, exhibiting enviable spryness for a man his age, he climbed onto the flat top of Tabernacle Rock to offer a welcoming address whose floweriness, embraced “the piney fragrance of the grove,” how happy he was “to gaze upon so many happy faces,” the “salubriousness of the day God hath wrought” for the proceedings, and the “one or two special guests of note”: Dr and Mrs Justiss Dunbar, the doctor being the “First Chairman of the Committee for the Endowment of Young Males by the Friends of Joshua Bible Society” (as he and his organization were formally known). Then, with a gracious wave of the hand, Pa brought on Fritz Auerbach (“our visitor from foreign lands, to whom Dr Dunbar and the Friends of Joshua have seen fit to offer sanctuary”), who, as arts-and-crafts director, was the guiding spirit behind the famous “Parade of Ships” that led off the afternoon’s program – the event that annually gave the broadest scope to the campers’ wit and ingenuity, requiring as it did the transformation of humble rowboats and scows into representations of the triremes and galleons of yore.

Fritz, equally gracious, expressed his gratitude for the opportunity the Society had given him, and, his gently modulated voice amplified through the megaphone, proceeded to introduce the various entries as they traversed the five hundred yards from the boat dock to the swimming dock, where they were rated by a panel of judges (Pa, Doc Oliphant, and Henry Ives) on originality, execution, and presentation: Columbus’s famed Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria (three for the price of one) – the Job entry; a Mississippi River paddle wheeler, with its smokestack puffing – Malachi; even the Titanic, Hosea’s entry, which, in full view of all, “struck” an “iceberg” and “went to the bottom”; and finally – this was ultimately awarded the first prize (twenty happy points and an extra helping of dessert all round) – Jeremiah’s entry, the old camp whale boat converted into a “Cleopatra’s barge” of remarkable configuration, her gunwales festooned with flowered swags and wreaths. A stern-visaged Marc Antony (Phil Dodge), complete with an approximation of a helmet and a scarlet cape, posed dramatically, sword in hand, on the foredeck, while a stalwart Roman centurion with a trumpet (Tiger Abernathy) and the queen’s own brother-husband, young Ptolemy (Leo Joaquim), exchanged murderous scowls just behind him. Astern, the plump and gaudy Egyptian queen lounged amid a bower of wild flowers, one hand trailing languidly in the water as its mate dangled a bunch of gilded grapes over a pair of bright-red lips: Mr Jerome Jackson, ludicrously lipsticked and rouged, bedecked in an outrageous wig and a tin brassiere cleverly wrought from a pair of kitchen funnels. An outsized “diamond” was ingeniously attached to his navel, and his husky physique was swathed in folds of gauzy fabric (dyed cheesecloth), yards of which drapery trailed prodigally in the barge’s wake.