Ethan Rutherford - The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories

The thing is, we were worried about enrollment. We were already way down for the summer, thanks to video games and league sports. Who knows what else. Overconcerned parents, maybe, worried about their kid falling behind the little engineers in India and China, etc., which I’m not discounting, you do have to think of the future. But that’s the climate we were facing, so in terms of what some of you are calling the Debacle . . .

There are things I’m sorry about. Things that probably could’ve been handled better. But everyone makes mistakes. That’s the first thing we tell our campers when they arrive in the Condor Transports: mistakes happen, but you have to keep the big picture in mind. You have to remain optimistic in your decision making. You have to value intent. And if intentions are on the up and up?

It started with Moosey, the moose head that’s hung over the mantel in the Chow Hut for Lord knows how long, and who has, over the years, become our unofficial mascot. Spirits were low with this batch of campers, I don’t know why. We just had a higher number of pasty, sort of obese kids sign up this summer for some reason. They got a kick out of Moosey, but it was hard to get them excited about much else. Any other year, maybe it wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but this year, with the enrollment issue, it was different. There are four other camps around Lake Oboe, and parents visit during the summer. If they like what they see, chances are they’ll sign their kids up for another session, which takes a load off our back in terms of marketing. But everywhere the parents—we call them Pen Pals—looked this year, it was sullen city. The kids weren’t taking care of their Teepees. The Spirit Catchers they made in arts and crafts looked like they’d been weaved by retards. We staged a Capture the Coonskin game, and it was like watching apathy battle indecision. A PR disaster, essentially.

So the visiting Pen Pals see this, and go, Why should we send our kids here next year instead of one of the other camps? And to that I found myself saying, Good question. I really found myself saying that. It was depressing.

And then, one day, Moosey was gone. And the campers . . . well, they were upset. We were all upset. No one knew who’d taken the thing. I didn’t think it could’ve been one of our kids, but we did a bunk search anyway. We combed the beach. Had the campers stomp through the brambles, arms linked so they wouldn’t miss a spot. They didn’t find him.

The fact that someone could just take Moosey, it was a little more than some of the campers could bear. To be honest, it was a little more than I could bear. Things already hadn’t been going well, and now this? The effect that Moosey’s absence had on these kids, especially the sensitive ones . . . it was a last-straw kind of thing. Some of them wanted to go home, and expressed it in no uncertain terms. No one signed up for the Tailfeather Talent show, which is normally a big hit. And our camp songs, I mean, you could forget about it. Frogs eating marbles. It was worrisome. We didn’t know how to fix it, all these mopey campers, but something had to be done.

I think it was Scott, one of our senior counselors, who came up with the idea. Moosey was missing, yes, and that was sad and infuriating, but maybe there was an opportunity here to, you know, harness some enthusiasm for Camp Winnesaka.

I called an emergency Tribal Meeting in the Chow Hut and told the campers that today was a grave day at Camp Winnesaka. One that shouldn’t be taken lightly. A day we shouldn’t forget. Some of the campers were crying. I was wearing my ceremonial button blanket and standing below the spot where Moosey’d always hung. I asked them if they had faith in me as Head Eagle. They nodded. I told them that Moosey was Camp Winnesaka. And that there are people who are jealous of us. And resentful of all the fun we have here. People who would rather . . . I looked at Eric, the cook, who nodded, and I said, And those people are the art fags across the lake at Camp Chickapony.

Camp Chickapony had nicer brochures than we did. They had a pool.

They said, What are art fags? I said, You don’t want to know. Chadwick Thoroughgood raised his hand and said, What now? I said we had to stand up for ourselves. What would the Elders, who are watching us right now, have done in this situation? We had to get Moosey back.

There was a brief moment of . . . I don’t know what it was. I could hear kids sniffling. I pulled my button blanket over my head and then flapped my arms to simulate the flight of an eagle and said, We have to get Moosey back !

They cheered.

We canceled Crafts and Activity Time to let the campers marinate on what was expected of them. We didn’t know, necessarily, where Moosey was, but he certainly wasn’t here, and Chickapony seemed like a good place to start. And then Jim, one of our junior counselors, came bursting through the door, dripping wet, and made the announcement that he’d just been at Camp Chickapony, and that they did indeed have Moosey, hanging in their refectory. Upside down. With a cardboard thought bubble taped to one of his antlers. That said “I suck.”

I should’ve—I mean, he smelled like perfume and body odor: I had my doubts he’d actually seen Moosey. But skepticism isn’t one of the virtues we try to instill in our campers here at Winnesaka. Skepticism is like a gateway drug to more destructive impulses, like cynicism. And who wants to sign their kids up for a summer of that ?

We stormed Chickapony at night. I figured even if the kids didn’t find Moosey, at least it would get their spirits up. Get their blood flowing in the right direction. Generate a little common feeling among the campers for Winnesaka, and we could go from there.

But there were problems. It was an amphibious operation and this wasn’t the most athletic or boat-smart bunch we’ve had at Winnesaka. Our first raid ended—I mean, we were trying to get across the lake, but they didn’t even get to Chickapony. Jimmy Osteo bumped Randal Jenkins who was holding one of the bow lines, and he dropped it into the water. Tony Rademaker heaved his not-unsubstantial weight to port and bent an oarlock while trying to steady himself. Byron McKinstry said he couldn’t see through the masks we’d given them. Then there were the wooden rowboats. They’d always been tipsy, which was the reason we didn’t use them much. The paddleboats were fine, they were made of plastic, but they weren’t large enough for our purposes. So that, you know, that’s why we used the wooden ones. And since we’d sold most of our life jackets to Camp Niateano a couple of summers ago . . . I guess we thought we wouldn’t need them. I don’t know. So in terms of preparation . . . I mean, it’s easy to say always be prepared, but when something needs to be done urgently sometimes you have to go with what you’ve got and figure the rest out as you go.

A couple of the boats capsized. They were only ten feet away from the dock. And since Seaweed Sessions had been canceled this year because of cutbacks, there were a few of them who probably couldn’t swim as well as they should have. No one died, but there was some floundering. Quinn Kasem ended up drinking half of Lake Oboe, and . . . he’s home now. He’s doing fine. We just today received a postcard from him, actually. His words bear quoting: “Dear All the Eagles and Papooses at Camp Winnesaka: What . . . fun . . . proud to have . . . been [part of] . . . Camp Winnesaka [where all summers are Indian Summers].”

The campers, I guess, the Quinn incident shook them up a little bit. I reassured them what we were doing was honoring Winnesaka tradition, but some of them were a little slow putting money on the counter for a second raid. I told them that as far as safety goes, how can you feel safe knowing that someone could just creep into camp at any time and steal something as important as Moosey? I mean, what’s next? Your sleeping bag?