Elaine Wolf - Camp

Ilooked for Rory as we sang the Takawanda welcome song. But without standing, I saw only the families around us. I searched some more when Nancy instructed us to rise for the alma mater. Charlie stood with me. Was Rory planning to get him again? I had figured she was going to drift by during lunch, but desserts were already out—cake and cookies and watermelon—and still no Rory. And no dog.

“Ready for a little tennis?” my father asked. “My racquet’s in the car. I’ll go get it.”

“Lou.” My mother nodded toward Charlie.

“He’s fine with the girls.”

“Sure he is,” Erin agreed. “Aren’t you, Charlie? We’re gonna watch Amy play tennis.”

“Amy. Tennis.” Charlie’s voice came as a whisper. I didn’t think anyone else heard him. But Erin had. “Right,” she answered. “Watch Amy play tennis.” She pulled Charlie to his feet. “Watch with us,” Erin urged her parents.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mrs. Hollander said.

Jody zeroed in on my father and me. She stopped to grab tennis balls from the shopping cart, then ushered us onto the middle court. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Becker,” she said. “Your daughter’s a fine player, one of the strongest in camp. And one of the nicest girls too.” Jody tossed me the balls. “Now show your father how your time here’s paying off.”

“Go for it,” Erin called. I turned at her voice. She stood in back of Charlie, his nose against the chain link fence behind the courts. Erin’s parents stood to her side. No sign of anyone with a dog. No sign of my mother. I bounced a ball—once, twice. Why wouldn’t she watch me play?

“Let’s see how good you’ve gotten,” Dad teased.

I began hitting slowly, grooving my strokes as he had taught me. Where was Rory?

I heard Erin’s mother say I was good. “Wait,” Erin told her. “She’s just warming up. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

As if on cue, my father picked up the pace. He slammed a forehand to the baseline. I hit a strong cross-court. “Good shot, honey,” he called. “Let’s see your backhand.”

Erin gave me a thumbs-up when I turned to get a ball. I tickled Charlie’s nose, still pressed to the fence. “Love you, buddy,” I said, then readied myself to hit by bouncing the ball.

“Stalling for time?” My father chuckled.

“Oh, so you’re eager for everyone to see that I’m better than you, Dad?”

Erin laughed at our banter. “Go on, Ame. Show him how good you are.”

The racquet became part of me. I fed off my father’s pace, returning each shot with a bullet of my own. Applause—louder than Erin’s family alone could have given. Campers and parents on the other courts stopped hitting. The strike of the ball. The movement of my feet. That’s all there was. On your toes, Amy. On your toes. Jody’s words in my mind kept me light, made me fly. “One of the strongest players in camp,” she had said. “A good bet to win the senior tournament.”

I slammed a backhand down the line. “Great shot!” My father clapped the strings of his racquet.

“Way to go!” Erin’s voice pulled me back into myself. I glanced behind to catch a smile stretch across her face, Charlie still in front of her, her parents to her left. My mother stood next to them now. She left just enough space between her and the Hollanders so no one would think they were together. And on my mother’s other side, Rory and Robin gabbed as if they belonged there. Not an inch between them and my mother.

I took in the crowd fanning out across the fence. No dogs. No barking. Charlie’s fine, I assured myself. Erin will protect him.

“Stalling for time again?” my father kidded.

Rory won’t hurt Charlie now, I decided, shaking off my fear of another attack. He looked so peaceful up against the fence, Erin’s hands gentle on his shoulders. Show Mom how good you’ve gotten , I told myself. Show her you’re special. Hit the ball, Amy. Smack it hard.

I whammed a forehand down the center, a backhand to the corner. Yet despite my shots, the audience thinned. Campers pulled their parents away until not one spectator remained to Erin and Charlie’s right.

I waited a moment to see if my mother would stay. Though she didn’t move from her position near the Hollanders, I knew she had no interest in watching me. My mother wouldn’t care that I was one of the best players in camp. What good was tennis if I wasn’t friendly enough or pretty enough or popular enough? Yet I wanted her to hear the “Great shot!” and “What a player!” I wanted her to know that some people thought I was good enough at something.

“What’s the matter? Tired already?” My father seemed to enjoy the spotlight we shared. He was proud of my playing. He had taught me well. Not bad for a father who never had time for his own game. Not bad for a man upstaged his whole life by his kid brother, Eddie Becker, the boy the girls came to watch, as my father had said. Uncle Ed, whose own daughter, with private tennis lessons and indoor winter practice, had to fight to keep up with me on the court.

I started a rally, but my focus scattered. The Hollanders still applauded, and my mother stood, straight as a pine tree, in her spot. But Rory and Robin were gone.

I should have left the court when I saw they weren’t there. Yet Charlie seemed fine. And I wanted my mother to see that tennis wasn’t a waste—not for me, anyhow. Focus. Concentrate. Make Mom see you’re special.

I tried again to shrink my universe to the ball spinning toward me. Racquet back. Step. Swing. A shot to my father’s backhand. I tracked the ball, heard the thump of his contact. Then Charlie screamed.

I spun around as a tan dog zoomed in from the right, claiming Charlie before Erin saw it coming. The cocker spaniel jumped and barked. It licked Charlie’s leg. I dropped my racquet and ran from the court. “Get him off!” I yelled to Erin. She grabbed the dog’s collar while my mother squeezed in front of Mr. and Mrs. Hollander. By the time I circled behind the fence, my mother held Charlie from the back, her arms binding his chest as if trying to hold his wails in. Long, howling cries—a huge sound from such a little boy. Louder than the barking, which hadn’t stopped, though Erin held the dog at a distance now.

I didn’t pay attention to the gathering of campers and parents as I lifted my brother. “It’s all right, buddy. I’ve got you.” My words did nothing to thaw his frozen body, nothing to stop his shrieks. “See, buddy, no more dog. You’re okay now.”

My father, who had raced on my heels, tried to help. “Calm down now, son. See?” He pointed to Erin. “The dog’s way over there. Erin’s holding him so he can’t get near you.”

“Sorry. I’m really, really sorry,” Erin called. “I got him off as fast as I could.”

“It’s not your fault,” I told her, knowing who was responsible. Surely Rory had masterminded the attack.

Something else I knew too: Charlie’s screams could go on for an hour. And with each new yell, with every “No!”—as if my brother still felt the dog on his leg—my anger doubled. Let Rory threaten me all she pleased, whip me all she wanted. But Charlie? She couldn’t hurt him and get away with it. I wouldn’t allow that.

“Does anyone know whose dog that is?” Uncle Ed marched across the field, Nancy beside him. “Who owns that dog?” He veered toward the rec hall, leaving Nancy to disperse campers and parents, still huddled around us. “Mr. and Mrs. Becker,” she said, “I’m so sorry about this.” I tried not to meet Nancy’s eyes, couldn’t risk crying. “I’m going to find out who that dog belongs to,” she went on, patting Charlie’s shoulder. I knew he didn’t feel her touch.