Then, without warning, a torch was seen to pinwheel through the air and land on the roof, whose newly oiled shingles quickly took fire. A second torch flew up, and a third. Tlie three standing in the doorway ran inside to rescue Fritz’s possessions, but the heat quickly drove them out again, and a rushing, cracking, snapping sound was in the air. The enamel on the shutters popped in ugly blisters. The clapboards buckled with the heat, singing out their protests against the flames, while the little grove of white birch trees became so many torches, writhing in their turn, their foliage burning away until only black poles were left, like the bars of a prison.
By the time the firefighting equipment arrived from Woking Corners, nothing remained except a heap of blackened ruins. Everything was lost: the chess set from Hong Kong, the pewter-lidded stein from Neuschwanstein, the precious album of stamps, including the upside-down airmail special, the record collection, its shellac discs melting and flowing together to form a black viscous puddle of classical composers and that singular novelty Fritz had been so proud of, the voice of Johannes Brahms talking on the telephone with Alexander Graham Bell.
In those waning days of summer Ma Starbuck’s Concord grapes had reached perfection, their gleaming purple jackets dusted with white, like frost or sugar-glaze. But this summer Ma hadn’t put up her usual batch of grape jelly, and so the boys had been allowed to pick an occasional bunch, until the arbor had been largely denuded of its fruit. Now, early in the afternoon, on the last full day of camp, Ma sat with Dagmar Kronborg on the slatted bench beneath its dusty, fading leaves, snapping string beans into an enameled colander. The two women had been commiserating over the recent tragic events, Ma tearfully blaming herself for Tiger’s death, as if she had somehow been remiss in not having looked after him more closely, and Dagmar, more pragmatically, saying that such things happened in life, no one could have prevented it. The terrible fire that had consumed the cottage, however, that was something else. What could they have been thinking of, those boys?
Dagmar’s eyes flashed dangerously as she considered the unfortunate incidents that had led up to the disaster, and the fact that thus far Pa Starbuck had not found it necessary to bring any kind of critical pressure to bear as a result of the boys’ wicked behavior. Moreover, while the police and fire officials had been interrogating both campers and staff, nothing had as yet come of their inquiries. Nor, thought Dagmar, did such seem likely. Even Wanda, when questioned, had been unable to identify any of the perpetrators, though Fritz, never one to take things lying down, had sworn that upon his return he would force the issue with both Pa and Dr Dunbar.
“And Fritz – has he left camp yet?” Dagmar asked.
Ma dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. As planned, Fritz had departed on the morning bus for Hartford, where he would entrain to New York and Washington to meet with the Red Cross group. Ma described the farewell between him and Leo, who, after Hank’s jitney had taken Fritz away, looked as if he’d lost his last friend.
“Maybe he has,” Dagmar said. With both Tiger and Fritz gone, Leo was more vulnerable than ever, and she deeply regretted the coolness between them.
Ma’s eyes welled with tears again as she confessed that she hardly knew what to make of it all anymore. How could things have gone so wrong? Camp Friend-Indeed wasn’t a place where bad things happened, it was a place for boys to spend a pleasant summer and enjoy themselves. They’d never lost a camper, never had the least bit of trouble -except for Stanley Wagner, who was the exception that helped prove the rule. And now, and now – Tiger, best trouper in camp, dead and buried, and all of Fritz’s things gone up in flames. A dark cloud seemed to hang over the camp, Ma said, and she feared that worse was to come.
Dagmar declared tartly that a man who walked around with his head in the clouds all the time couldn’t expect to avert trouble. “Gar’s either a child or a fool,” she added, then looked up to see the man himself coming into the arbor.
“Welladay, welladay,” Pa said as he lowered himself onto the bench where long ago he had lovingly carved a pair of initials (his and Ma’s, intertwined). Pushing back his hat, he wiped his brow, wagging his head in disbelief, like a farmer at a two-headed cow. “Welladay,” he repeated mournfully.
Dagmar’s lips pinched at the corners; she knew what “welladay” meant – the trials of Job were nothing compared with those that were now to be retailed in her ear: What, Pa dolorously asked, had he done to deserve all that now beset him, whence came these tribulations? And why Tiger, of all boys, to be taken?
“Tiger Abernathy! Now, there was a man!” he exclaimed. “A boy, true, but in time a man. Regrettable loss. Indeed, no one mourns his death more than I. But we can’t bring back the dead, can we? ‘Do not mourn me when I have crossed the bar, for I am mortal clay’ – that’s what that boy’d be telling us if he could.” He passed a hand across his face. “Well, enough, enough. The world’s a garden of roses if we can but forget the thorns.” He sighed again and contemplated the middle distance. A frown creased his brow and he tugged ruminatively at his lip. “Never should have had that orphan kid at camp,” he went on illogically. “Trouble’s his middle name. Spiders."
“Oh, don’t talk such foolishness, Gar!” Dagmar exclaimed. “You ought to be a comfort to the boy, not blame him for what was not his fault.”
Pa sighed and cast his eyes heavenward. “ Eee -heh. We have tried, we have endeavored-”
Dagmar was clearly at the end of her patience. “Oh, bother endeavor!” she snapped. “If you’d just kept your eyes peeled, if you’d only paid a little attention, instead of always going in search of a new warbler or titmouse-” Pa’s smile was beatific. “Dagmar, I confess it, when I am with the birds, I am one with my Maker. As I tell my boys about our feathered friends-”
“Yes, your boys, your boys, but not the one boy,” Ma put in. “Dagmar’s right. I’ve got bad eyes, it’s true, but it’s not me who don’t see, Garland Starbuck.’
Pa stared at her, taken aback by this unexpected outburst. “Why, Mayree,” he began with some consternation, only to be cut off.
“Never mind the talk. You know as well as I do Leo didn’t cause Tiger’s death.”
“And if he didn’t, he’s still a mischief-maker. Look-at what he wrote in that journal of his. And putting on the Buffalo Bill War Bonnet the way he did and prancing around in it. Why, it’s like spitting on the flag.”
Dagmar moved her torso around inside the jacket of her blue suit, too hot for the weather. “Oh, be quiet, Garland, for pity’s sake. If I hear another word about your precious Buffalo Bill I shall lose my patience.”
“Oh, never do that, my dear,” Pa expostulated mildly. “The great man presented me with that headdress with his own two hands. It was the greatest day of my life, the very greatest. Why, I remember the look in that old Indian fighter’s eye-”
“Oh, Pa ” Ma looked at him with a baffled expression. “Must you go on so?”
Pa hiked his chin. “Why not? I pride myself on possessing such a memento.”
“Oh, stop it, can’t you?” she said, at the end of her patience. “You may possess that bonnet, but it never came from Buffalo Bill. And don’t look at me like that. You know perfectly well Buffalo Bill never gave you a nickel in change, let alone the time of day.” She turned to Dagmar and explained. “It’s just a story, just one more of his fanciful tales to tell to the boys, it’s no more true than his moonbow tale.”
Dagmar straightened in her seat. “You mean it was all made up? About the bonnet?”