Church Camp

On Monday morning Mama, who had been draggy since Daddy walked out, was in 
such a cheery mood you would have thought she'd had a fresh haircut. No 
sooner had she drunk her first cup of coffee than she pulled her cold cash 
out of the freezer and counted a thin wad of small bills. "We're taking a 
little trip."

"Where?" I said.

"It's a surprise," she said.

My stomach tightened. I didn't trust her surprises with all the mayhem we'd 
been through that summer-Daddy leaving, Mama moving us to a run-down 
apartment and Billy gone to camp. Mama wasn't packing a suitcase, so this 
couldn't be an overnight trip.

 "Dirk said we can drop in on the camp whenever we like and it so happens I 
would like to do that today."

 "It isn't time for Billy to come home," I said. I knew exactly when he was 
coming: August 11, 1962, five whole days away.

"We're just going to pay him a visit. Get dressed." She handed me my only 
clean dress.

 "Does he know?"

 "No, I told you it's a surprise," she said.

Anyone taking car attendance here would know ours was never gone long, 
certainly not for a whole day at a time. If Aunt Connie and Uncle Wayne 
turned up to help us out, we'd be gone. I took my sweet time getting ready, 
but this only served to annoy Mama further.

We filled up at the Deep Rock station because they gave Green 
Stamps. Mama lifted her sunglasses and primped in the rear-view mirror, 
adding more lipstick. She looked pretty in her bright blue sheath which had 
been her shopping outfit back in Tampa. She fluffed the hem to cool her 
legs. The car already smelled of mid-day heat.

The gas man sprayed blue liquid on the windshield, then took a rubber blade 
on a stick and wiped each stroke from top to bottom, carefully lifting the 
wipers. I thought he was an even-enough fellow until he winked back at Mama 
and she grinned. I felt my neck grow pink. Why Mama had to flirt with every 
man alive was beyond me.

"Ma'am, I see your plate's from Florida," he said.

"That's right." She removed her sunglasses.

"Whereabouts?"

"Tampa," she said.

"That's a long ways off. Bet it's a hot one down there today."

"No doubt." She handed him a few crumpled bills from her change purse. Mama's 
surprise had cost $3.10 and we hadn't left town.

He flipped coins from a metal box on his belt. "I know a couple of fellers 
in the Air Force down there."

Mama didn't act like this rang any bells. She counted her change. "How about 
my stamps?"

He fished into his shirt pocket and counted out a strip of them 
with grime-stained fingers. Mama flashed him a grateful smile, the kind she'd 
used before we moved away from home.

She leaned up to inspect the windshield. "We're squeaky clean 
now," she said as she started the engine.

But I didn't feel clean at all. My backside was still oozy. I'd 
put on the only dress left that didn't have stains down the front, but it 
smelled musty from hanging in the wardrobe.
I opened the glove box to find the Green Stamps savings book to 
stick the stamps on the pages. "Whoa! Did you see how nasty his hands were? 
There's no telling what you can pick up. You use a sponge when we get home."

I slipped the loose stamps into the book and closed the glove 
box. Here she was worried about health when she was drinking Nervine lady's 
tonic like there was no tomorrow.

This was our first trip out of town since we'd moved to 
Wakefield, and it was some kind of fun to see something new. Rows of 
soybeans rushed by like tufts of chenille on a green bedspread. Mama clicked 
on the radio and flipped the dial muttering about no news stations. She 
finally settled for a song we'd heard all summer: Gene Pitney's The Man Who 
Shot Liberty Valance.

 "What's a valance?" I asked.

She motioned her hand across the top of the steering wheel. "It's the short 
curtain at the top of a window."

I remembered that Grandma June had one in her kitchen with 
little drawings of egg beaters and spatulas and spice jars. "Why did they 
name him after a curtain?"

She shrugged. "It's just a name." She pushed the lighter knob on the 
dashboard. "How about grabbing me a cigarette?"

I fished around in her pocketbook

"Your last name is your family's," she said. "Your folks give 
you your first name."

I already knew all that. I hadn't passed second grade for 
nothing. I'd asked about Putnam once and Daddy had laughed and said we got 
our last name because our people in the olden days liked "puttin' em" in 
their place. Nothing was just a name to her. She had named us after big-name 
celebrities thinking their magic might rub off.

"Why would they name a boy Liberty?"

She poked the lighter back into the dashboard. "I don't know. 
Maybe she likes the Statue of Liberty."

I knew Miss Liberty from my silver dollar. She had the curliest hair in the 
world bar none. Mama had given me a couple of home permanents back before 
she gave up on making me look cute. That's when she gave me a boyish pixie 
cut and declared jeweled barrettes and hair clips a waste. I'd never have 
pretty hair to tie in ribbons or plait in fancy braids like girls at my 
school. I cried when Mama wasn't looking.

The radio played commercials about farm chemicals and crop hail 
insurance. Life here was all about growing things and making sure you did a 
good job of it. You planted a field, it had to grow. Your life depended on 
it. Anything uninvited must be removed, just like the weeds in Grandma June's 
flower beds. I figured this was why Illinois people didn't care for 
strangers.

"Won't Billy be surprised," Mama smiled to herself. "He wrote to 
June that the Schoonovers have already been up to see Mike."

Of course she wouldn't want to be outdone by them, never mind 
the fact that this trip would shrink precious money, something that I wasn't 
about to point out. Mama was going to do what Mama wanted. She'd escape 
Wakefield for a while at least. At the top of the hour she turned up the 
radio to catch the news.

Investigation continues into the death of actress Marilyn 
Monroe, found early Sunday from an apparent suicide.

She looked over at me. "My God, did you hear that?" She turned the newscast 
to full volume. "Miss Monroe, age 36, was found dead in bed yesterday of 
what appears to be an overdose of sleeping pills.. Fans around the world are 
deeply shocked by the star's premature and tragic death."

Mama slowed the car. Her hands were shaking on the steering wheel when she 
pulled over. She searched for a hanky as we sat idling in a farmer's 
driveway. I didn't know what I'd do if she took one of her sick spells. She 
had long admired Marilyn Monroe though she didn't consider her a saved 
Christian, what with her wild living and naked-book poses. I imagined the 
beautiful star in a white flowing robe knocking on Heaven's door like a 
picture of Jesus in Billy's Bible, only it would be doubtful that the door 
would ever open.

"See if there's one of my tonics in the glove box," Mama said, gasping.

I plucked the bottle from a nest of road maps. She took a quick sip then 
closed her eyes and dabbed away tears. "Why oh Lord do the beautiful die 
young?"



It was noon before we reached Camp Nazareth. The place was the biggest clump 
of trees for miles around, and the parking lot looked all but deserted, a 
fact that fed Mama's downhearted mood. She wasted no time breezing into the 
camp office, demanding to see Billy Graham. The lady at the desk gave her an 
odd look until she explained that it was her son's given name. The woman 
broke into a broad smile as if she understood a joke.

It was lunch time and children in white camp t-shirts were eating fried 
chicken under a clump of shade trees. Billy ran over and gave Mama a hug 
while she stood like a board, unable to hug him back.

I stared at the chicken leg on his paper plate. "Got anything 
for us?"

He made a face. "You want to eat here?"

Mama set her handbag down. "We haven't driven eighty miles up here to starve 
to death."

She sent me over to the window where they handed out the food. When I 
returned, she had joined Billy and Mike Schoonover at the table. She asked 
us to bow our heads. The next thing out of her mouth was, "Isn't it terrible 
news about Marilyn Monroe?"

Of course she had to explain what she was talking about, and it 
was all she could do to keep her voice even. I hoped she wouldn't start 
crying like she'd done in the car. After she had heard that newscast, it had 
taken her several minutes to get back on the road, and then she had 
practically twisted the tuning knob off the radio for more updates.

Billy sat quietly but he wasn't sad. Mike just wanted news from 
home: how his little league team was doing, (I had no idea), whether the 
church was going to have a hayride for the kids (I hadn't heard of it) and 
if the Rexall had any new Duncan yoyos (as if Mama would ever let me go 
check.)

He concluded, "You don't know much, do you Squirt?"

I squinted back at him and as I kept eating. The chicken was 
cold and dry, but I was so hungry that I was half-finished eating before I 
remembered to tell Billy that Daddy showed up last week.

Mama looked embarrassed, then proceeded with, "He says he'll be back before 
long so we can decide about the house."

Billy preened and smiled. "Did you hear that, Mike? We're 
getting a new house."

 I was stunned. Daddy had said nothing about a house. All he did 
was pack up and leave. It was as if she believed her own lies.

"When do we move?" Billy asked.

"We'll see."

"But Daddy said-"

Mama cut me off. "We can't live in that apartment forever. It's 
not healthy."

Health? The way she smoked cigarettes and kept the blinds pulled, she had me 
fooled. I looked down at my pale skinny legs. During an ordinary summer, I'd 
turn freckled as a ripe banana. This year I hadn't been outdoors long enough 
to grow sunburn lines. But maybe she and Daddy were playing a game, cooking 
up a secret plot to surprise us with a new house. As gullible as I was at 
the time, I wanted to believe her.

"Are we going to stay in Wakefield?" Billy asked.

"We'll see." Her eyes drifted ff to nowhere in particular.

Billy seemed bored by all the talk about our house. As soon as he could get 
a word in, he told us about the Bible play he was in.

"What part are you, Mike?" I asked, relieved for the distraction.

"I'm Bartholomew. He was one of the disciples."

Since that character never said a word in the New Testament, Mike would do 
just fine.

"Did they cut your head off yet?" I asked Billy.

"Nope," he touched his neck. "They don't do that until the last 
night of camp."

He told us how he had to kneel in front of a stump that was 
placed behind a back-lit sheet. The audience would see the ax drop. Then the 
executioner would hold up a fake head.

"You don't really see his head come off." Mike said.

"You don't?" I sounded disappointed.

Everyone looked at me, amused, when Mike offered, "They go out to the 
cemetery and dig up this old dead guy and-"

"He's pulling your leg," Mama said.

"It's really a coconut wearing a Halloween wig," Billy explained.

Mike excused himself to run off with another boy. It was a white-hot day-too 
warm to stand on a ball diamond waiting for something to happen. Knowing 
what a sorry player Billy was, he'd be sent to the outfield to chew clover 
petals.

We were all three watching the game form up. I got a little worried that 
with Billy gone, Mama might start up with the house business gain. If she 
did, it wasn't going to end well. "Guess what?" I said, calculating the 
better distraction. "Daddy had a baby sister."

Billy rolled his eyes. "What's the punch line?"

 "No he really did. Grandma June said so. Her name was Dorothy and they 
called her Dot. Only she died a long time ago."

"How come we never heard about her?"

"You know how the Putnams are," Mama chimed in. She blew a halo of smoke 
over our heads as a softball game squared off in the distance.

The three of us watched. "Can I go home now?" Billy said. "I'm about ready."

 "You still have a whole week left, Billy."

"But I hate it here. It's all buggy and Mike isn't the best 
friend like he said he'd be. And everyone makes fun of me because of my 
name, calling me Billy Graham, the Old Crusader. And they put sand in my 
sheets. One boy even peed on my pillow."

I could feel my face cloud over. Things sure had done way downhill since his 
letter about Mabel setting the table. I was surprised my big brother the 
know-it-all was being so honest. He may have to sleep on a pee-pot pillow, 
but what did he think he'd be coming home to? Did he even get my letter? 
Mama beet me last night. Come home quick so I won't get kilt. Please hurry! 
If you can't come right away, pray hard.

"Please Mama. I don't like it here."

She flicked ashes over the edge of the picnic table. "You have a 
camp counselor, don't you? Why don't you talk to him?"

"I have. He says to hang in there and be a good sport. I hate 
sports. All they do is make us play softball or horseshoes. It's worse than 
school."

"Stop whining. You go to come up here. It's a far sight more 
than I ever got to do at your age."

He rolled his eyes from Mama to me, but I knew better than to 
show him any emotion. If I started to boohoo we'd both turn to warm butter.

"I want to go home, Mama."

She held her jaw as if she had a toothache. "I don't raise quitters, young 
man.

You're going to have to tough it out."

"But it's too hard."

"Don't tell me what's hard. I had to stretch my dimes to get you ready to 
come up here. You wanted to come, you make the best of it. What will Mike do 
if you leave? What would the people at church say if you quit? Brother Dirk 
worked hard to make this possible for you."

Everything was about what other people thought. The truth was, 
the only ones who would know or care about the camper ship were Grandma June 
and Brother Dirk. Mike wouldn't care if Billy left. Obviously he had other 
friends. Still, I couldn't believe that she didn't cave. Billy surely had 
been her forever favorite, but right now she wasn't showing one ounce of 
sympathy.

We all looked up when man in a camp shirt cleared his throat. 
"Sorry ma'am, but we don't allow smoking here."

"Excuse me?" she said.

"I'm Rob David, the director," he said open-ended, as if he'd 
asked himself a question. "As a Christian camp, we grownups must set a good 
example."

Mama frowned. "Good example, huh?"

"It's for the children's sake. We teach clean living here."

She snubbed the half-smoked cigarette out on the picnic table. 
It smoldered in the chipped paint, growing a dark wound. "There. Hope that 
makes you happy."

I thought he would blast her for making burn marks on the table. 
Instead, he said, "Ma'am, I appreciate your understanding."

"Oh I do understand." Her voice was as thick as when she yelled 
at Daddy. She rose from the bench. "What else do you do, Mr. David, shoot 
your visitors with slingshots? How about hospitality, do you teach that? 
That's part of being a good Christian, isn't it?"

It was clear he wasn't going to answer. "This is your son?" he 
said.

"Yes. This is Billy Graham Putnam."

I could feel Billy cringe. No one could top the churchy name she'd 
given him.

Mr. David twitched the corner of his mouth. "I don't want to be 
unpleasant, Mrs. Putnam."

"Oh I'm sure you don't. You want to set a good example." I 
could tell she'd had fire-brand religion on her mind for a long time.

Billy and I sat there stunned, as she lit into the man like an evangelist, 
quoting scripture about "going to Hell" and "being like one of the Four 
Horsemen of the Apocalypse," thumping the picnic table as if it were a 
pulpit. He wasn't Daddy, but he was a man, and so far, few of them had given 
her much to feel good about.

After Mr. David slinked away, Mama pulled herself together and declared 
herself more than ready to leave. Billy got a nervous look on his face, and 
then he bit his lip as if he was trying to think something up quick, 
considering and rejecting ideas as soon as they came. Finally, he settled on 
his last stall tactic. "Let me snow you my cabin." Reluctantly, she let him 
lead us to a grove of buckeye trees. But she said it had better be quick. We 
had eighty miles ahead of us, and he had his own camp obligations. The cabin 
resembled a tool shed, slightly less open-air than a corn crib, with bunk 
beds on each side of the narrow room.

I pointed to a dark spot on the rug beside his bed. "Is this where Mabel set 
the table?"

 "Yes," he said, telling Mama, "She means where that kid threw up."

"Charming."Mama stood, arms folded, drumming her fingers on her elbows.

He led us to an indoor chapel with a concrete floor. A wooden 
platform had been built up front with a white curtain stretched across a 
clothesline.

"They shine a light from behind, so we're shadow figures."

"Do you get to make animal shapes?" I asked.

"This isn't Noah's ark," Mama snapped.

"You will come see the play, won't you?" Billy asked.

She swayed from one foot to the other. "I don't know. It's a 
long ways up here."

I couldn't believe she'd hesitate to see Billy perform. Most 
days we didn't have anything better to do but listen for trains and count 
floor tiles.

"We can come, can't we, Mama?"

She sighed. "I don't think so, Kelly. Smokers aren't welcome." A 
fresh cloud of disappointment came over Billy. His face turned blotchy, but 
he wouldn't let himself cry.

By the time we reached the parking lot, he sounded desperate. "Please can't 
I go home? It won't take me long to pack."

"Young man, the Lord allowed you to come up here. Do you think 
he'd want you to spit in His eye by running away? "

"No ma'am," he mumbled.

The argument was over.

As Mama strutted ahead, I grabbed his sleeve.

"Be glad you aren't home," I whispered.

"Why?"

I sliced a finger across my neck.

When we got to the car, I wondered if he might try to slip into the back 
seat like some stowaway, but all he did was stand in the driveway like a 
lone post shivering.

She started the motor. "Remember Jesus was tempted for forty days in the 
wilderness. The least you can do is endure another five."

Billy studied the ground as if she'd just told him that he belonged to 
another family. I waved goodbye, but I didn't let myself look at my brother 
directly for fear I'd cry for sure. As we pulled onto the highway, I couldn't 
help but feel sorry for him. Thanks to Mama and her hot-headed sermon, Billy 
he'd have to suffer payback from the camp director. Billy would say he was 
too old to cry, but I knew the truth. Mama had pushed him to it.
Copyright©2012 by Tamra Wilson
>
Tamra Wilson's first book, Dining with Robert
Redford & Other Stories, was released in 2011
shortly after receiving her MFA at Stonecoast. She
lives in North Carolina.

Shirley Gerald Ware-Publisher