Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“You know what I think?” he said quietly, looking around at the group. “I think our great author here should be made to eat his words.”

Aah, they all thought, here it came, one of Heartless’s big numbers.

“Yes, that’s it,” Reece reiterated. “I think our Ernie Hemingway should be made to eat every one of these pages he wrote.”

Ahh, that was clever, the boys’ looks said. Leave it to Heartless to come up with a way of making the punishment fit the crime.

“We’ll just find out how they taste.” Unrolling the notebook, Reece opened it and randomly tore out a page, which he proffered to Leo with exaggerated ceremony. “Eat it," he said softly.

Leo blinked. “I c-can’t.”

“Go on, eat it.” The words cut through the air.

“No.”

“Eat it!” Again Reece’s eyes blazed.

With a hopeless shrug Leo obeyed. Slowly he tore the page into quarters, crumpled the pieces, and took them one by one between his lips, munching slowly and methodically. He chewed for a long time, and when he finally swallowed, with an audible gulp, someone giggled

– Gus Klaus. Instantly Reece’s stern gaze fell upon the miscreant. This was no joking matter. He tore a second page from the spiral and held it out.

Leo backed off a step. “I can’t. It’s ma-making me sick.”

“I promise you’ll be a lot sicker if you don’t,” Reece growled. Leo took the page and munched it. A third followed, then a fourth.

The boys looked at each other. How many pages Would Reece make him eat, they wondered – all of them? Finally Tiger was moved to protest. “C’mon, he is liable to get sick.”

“That’s too bad,” Reece retorted. “From now on maybe he’ll be more careful what he writes down for other people to read.” He held up the notebook clenched in his hand. “See, Tige? This is what comes of indulging a spud, making excuses for him every chance you get.” He addressed Leo again. “One of these days you’re going to find yourself in deep trouble – you know that, Wackeem? And you know where you’re going to wind up? Right back where you came from, at the Institute.” He smacked the offending journal into his palm, clamped his fingers around it, and stepped back to the door, which he threw open. “Okay, you guys, hop it, all of you.”

“Where to?” asked the Bomber. “It’s powwow time. And it’s rainin’ out.”

“I said scram. Wackeem and I are going to have a little powwow of our own.”

When the cabin was cleared, Leo stood in the corner, waiting for whatever further punishment was scheduled to be meted out. Instead of the anticipated tirade, however,

Reece tried a new, “confidential” tack, and when he spoke it was quietly, without rancor.

“So what do you think, Wacko?” he asked softly. “About what?”

“Oh… about you – and camp. I don’t think we could say that it’s been the greatest success, could we?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that all you can ever say? ‘I don’t know.’ I hear tell you’re brighter than that, a lot brighter.” He jerked his head toward the door through which the boys had retreated. “Don’t you care if they think you’re a sissy and a coward?”

Leo’s look was defiant. “I’m not a coward.”

“You give a darn good imitation of it.” He shook his head with mock despair, then sat down on his footlocker. He kicked off his wet moccasins, dried his feet, and put on a pair of dry socks from the tray inside the locker. Then, shutting the lid, he dragged his boots out from under the cot and went about the elaborate ritual of polishing them. The industry with which he conducted this chore meant that the silence was prolonged. In the stillness the moths resumed their mad romance with the lantern, until one, dusting past Reece’s cheek, caused him to jerk his head back and softly curse. Leo watched as it whirled and made another pass, attracted by the flickering light. This time it brushed against Reece’s head. His hand flashed out and he imprisoned it within the hollow of his fist. Instead of crushing it as another might have done, he plucked it out with care, thumb and forefinger holding it fastidiously by one wing. Then with his other thumb he depressed the lamp lever, raising the glass chimney and freeing the flame. There was a soft hiss, a crackle, and the moth was no more. Reece took his hand away, wiped it on his leg, and lowered the chimney again.

“There’s ‘Poor Butterfly’ for you, kiddo. Go play that on your squawk box,” he said, and resumed wiping oil on the toe of the boot, keeping his eyes on Leo to get his reaction.

Leo said nothing. They looked to him, those cold blue eyes, like eyes seen through a painted mask. Cave cane, they seemed to say: Beware the dog. And then, as his own gaze fell, Reece’s lit upon the postcard lying on the bed, where Moriarity’s destruction of the pillow had exposed it.

“What’s that?” Reece demanded. He bent and picked it up, held it close to the lantern.

“Well, well,” he murmured, “sounds like you two have got real chummy.”

“She was just saying hello. To let me know She was okay. After

…”

“Well? After what?”

“You know. You hurt her.”

Reece glowered. “What’re you talking about?” he snarled, his voice suddenly hoarse.

With a quick, savage movement his arm shot out and his fingers closed around Leo’s throat. Leo felt the breath being choked out of him; he’d never seen Reece so angry. His face was a chalky color, his voice was a hoarse rasp; he yanked Leo up by the hair and shoved his face close. “Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you come off giving me all this crap, anyhow? You ought to learn to keep your trap shut.” His hand squeezed tighter, making Leo wince with pain. “And I’m warning you,” Reece growled between clenched teeth, “if you ever say one thing about that business, if anything ever goes around, you’ll regret it, you hear me? You’ll get it good. Understand?”

Yes. Leo understood: like Stanley Wagner got it good. Reece neatened his clothing and tucked his shirt in carefully. He put on his freshly oiled boots, caught up his coat and tipped his cap onto the back of his head. A hint of a smile hid in the corners of his lips as he gave Leo a last look, then strode out. In the doorway he whirled for a parting word: “I don’t want to see one single feather in here when I come back,” he said. “Not if it takes you the whole dinner hour.”

By dinnertime news of Leo’s transgression had spread through the campground, and as he shuffled to his accustomed place in the dining hall, there was a palpable undercurrent of mischief in the air, a suppressed hint of something about to happen, but when he looked to the Bomber for a clue, all he got back was a blank, studied glance, not a sly wink, not a sign. As for Tiger, though he said nothing, his very silence was a reproach.

During the meal Leo couldn’t eat a morsel and made only token passes at his food. The corned beef was rubbery, just the smell of the boiled cabbage made his gorge rise, and as he picked away at his plate he didn’t have to look up to feel the battery of hostile eyes drilling him from every side; whatever talk there was, he was sure it had to do with Wacko Wackeem, who’d been forced to eat crow in the guise of a blue-lined spiral notebook. Dessert time came, rice pudding, and after Monkey, half of this week’s waiter team, handed around the dishes, everyone seemed suddenly interested as Leo took his spoon and dug into his portion (no matter what, he couldn’t resist pudding -with raisins yet).

The moment Oats’s tin cricket sounded dismissal, the boys sprang up like jack-in-the-boxes, and the table waiters started hustling their trays, eager to get their tables cleared, while the balance of the campers went trooping outside,. heading for the lodge and the scheduled early-evening “rainy-day” activity – a sing-along and a movie. Before l. eo could get away, however, he was accosted by Bullnuts, also waiting on table that week.