A Night of Frost

A Night of Frost by Siegfried “Zig” Engelmann A Night of Frost © S. Engelmann, 2007 Page 1 of 274 A NIGHT OF FROST PART ONE HENNA Summerʼs my season. Course that donʼt mean I sit around all summer like a piece of lawn furniture, because I damned well donʼt. Iʼm the cook at Camp Timberline and more than likely I work harder during the summer than you work all year long. But I like the summer. Itʼs nice to look out of my window in the campʼs kitchen and see the blue lakes and the yellow meadows, instead of nothing but snow. People who donʼt know any better are always talking about the New England winter, but you can take it from someone whoʼs lived up here all her life: The only good thing about a New England winter is that it only comes once a year. Around here, you can always tell when summer is on its way by the way Jay McFarland dresses. When he sheds that old bearskin coat of his and gets out of his drag-ass overalls, you know it wonʼt be long before the campers will be here. Oh, that McFarland! The gossiping cornballs around here tell a lot of wild stories about him if you give them half a chance, but thereʼs not a word of truth to most of them. One story even has it that McFarland used to be in the movies. Thatʼll give you a rough idea of the kind of purebred gossip that goes through these woods. Course McFarland is a bit different. He reads a lot and uses some fancy words. He donʼt act in a way thatʼs exactly befitting the caretaker of a camp, either. But heʼs all right. Donʼt get me wrong. I ainʼt sticking up for him. Heʼs a typical male, which means heʼs far from perfect. Oh, he might be good looking enough—tall, a little gray, with rippling muscles like a young buck. He might even be a pretty fair carpenter, and lumberman, and even an interesting person to talk to from time to time. But like all men, heʼs as lazy as a sunburned grasshopper. Just to give you A Night of Frost © S. Engelmann, 2007 Page 2 of 274 an example, last August the blower over the ovens went of the fritz. McFarland said heʼd get to it the next day. That was betterʼn nine months ago and the damned thing still ainʼt fixed. Whatʼs more (and I donʼt want you to think Iʼm gossiping because everybody knows this for a fact), McFarlandʼs as sterile as a mule. Wouldnʼt surprise me a bit if thatʼs why he has his moody spells. He usually donʼt start getting them until the middle of the summer, when the forests are dry. But this year heʼs moody already and the camping season hasnʼt even begun yet. From my window I saw him this morning grinding up the hill in his old Chevy station wagon. He stopped by the Gymnasium, got out and walked to the knoll. Thatʼs what he always does when heʼs moody. Then he just stood there on that knoll, staring off at the spot where the town of Gallitan once stood. That was before the 1949 forest fire that ran though Gallitan like a cluberty horse, killing over a hundred people—some of them McFarlandʼs cronies. Off hand, it donʼt make a lot of sense for a man to always be brooding over anything that hurts so much, but I guess thereʼs something about Gallitan that McFarlandʼs never been able to settle with himself, something maybe to do with that Lorrie—that cute little girl that lived with him and Olive after Lorrieʼs folks were killed in the fire. But thatʼs another story and I damned well ainʼt got neither the time nor the interest to go into it now. Anyhow, after McFarland brooded on the knoll for a spell, putting a person in mind of a man looking at the grave of his best hound dog, he got back in his wagon and came grinding up to the kitchen. Out of the wagon he steps, whistling and acting extra jolly and corny. He always tries to cover up that way when heʼs feeling moody. He swaggers into the kitchen so chipper itʼs enough to make you sick at your stomach. “Howʼs my gal today?” he says. “Iʼll give you my gal, right over the head with a skillet.” Goddamn men always try to charm anyone thatʼs fool enough to feed them. I raised five males, and I ought to know! A Night of Frost © S. Engelmann, 2007 Page 3 of 274 I had something to shut McFarlandʼs water off with though. Nancy, sheʼs the camp director, had just called up from Boston, not twenty minutes before. And when she calls it means work for everybody—even McFarland. Sheʼd read off a list of things to do as long as your arm. Without saying a word, I handed that list to McFarland. You should have seen his face drop. A Night of Frost © S. Engelmann, 2007 Page 4 of 274 JAY I looked up at Henna and shook my head. The number one item on the list read, “Pick up the circus tent from Barkerʼs Supply in Northport.” “Henna,” I said, “what does Nancy mean: the circus tent?” “I just write them down; I donʼt worry about them. And thatʼs just the way she said it. ʻPick up the circus tent from Barkerʼs Supply in Northport.ʼ ” “Itʼs probably a small tent that looks like a circus tent. Nancy certainly wouldnʼt buy a full-sized circus tent.” “She wouldnʼt, eh? I recall you once saying that she wouldnʼt buy live seals for the Water Carnival, but you were singing a different tune when you had to drive all the way to New York to pick them up. And what about the time she had the snow party? She didnʼt want real snow, you said, but … ” “All right, I surrender,” I said and began looking at the list again. Henna said, “Who knows whatʼs rattling around in that womanʼs head? Every time her nose twitches or her period comes a day early, her mind gets to going like a skunk in the thistle patch. But donʼt ask me to ponder on the workings of her brain. I just take down what she says—nothing more!” The list was fairly long—sixteen items in all. Henna said, “And donʼt forget to pick up those four new staff members at the depot. Theyʼll be in on the 11:15.” “Yeah. I saw it on the list.” “Well, I just thought Iʼd remind you. I know how you sometimes ʻsee things on the list.ʼ ” I started for the door. “Iʼm on my way,” I said. “And when you get back, you damned well better take time to fix my blower! Unless you want to get bopped over the head with a skillet.” I turned around and winked at her. “Anything I can pick up for you in Northport? Lingerie or anything?” “Iʼll give you lingerie,” she said, reaching for the meat cleaver. A Night of Frost © S. Engelmann, 2007 Page 5 of 274 Good old Henna. I got in the wagon and started up the road, past the empty camp buildings. In four days, the camp would be alive with camp cheers, music, dirty jokes. It would smell of perfume, soap, comic books, fresh sheets, and Hennaʼs cooking. But now, the camp was hibernating in musty silence. I suppose I love Camp Timberline. You see, Iʼve been caretaker here since it opened. In fact, I helped build it. And Camp Timberline isnʼt a handful of rough-hewn shacks for outdoorsmen. This camp was designed for girls who are used to the best of everything. Theyʼve got it here—32 buildings, in a triangle that spans about 180 acres. At the triangleʼs apex is the Mainhouse, built from $22,000 worth of lumber. Down one leg of the triangle are the staff cabins and Nancyʼs cottage (next to the boat landing). Down the other leg are the campersʼ cabins—20 of them. Filling in the middle are the Artcraft Building, the Gymnasium (which has a regulation basketball court and a balcony capable of seating over 200 people), my barn, the garage, the stables, tennis courts, and finally the ballpark. The camp—except for the ballpark—is in the middle of a first-growth, red pine forest with trees six feet through the trunk. And as you come out of the forest youʼll see as breathtaking a sight as you can imagine. Youʼll find yourself on a ridge far above a panorama of ponds and forests—darkened in parts by the shadows of clouds. And on mornings like these, the mist clings to the mountains like a filmy apron. And off in the distance stands Mt. Washington, still wearing a snowcap. Once the road dips over the ridge, itʼs downhill all the way to Northport, 60 miles away. The morning chill had left the air by the time I pulled up in front of Barkerʼs Supply, an army surplus store with hip boots, canteens, parkas, and footlockers on display in the window. I got out of the wagon and stretched. The sun felt good on my shoulders. A Night of Frost © S. Engelmann, 2007 Page 6 of 274 I hesitated a moment before going in. I felt embarrassed about asking for a circus tent. Usually, by the end of the summer, nothing bothers me, but Iʼd been out of practice for the whole winter.

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