Free The Last Summer of the Camperdowns by Elizabeth Kelly

red, but there wasn’t enough bubble bath in the world to sanitize the effects of that afternoon.
    To this day I wonder how different things might have been had my mother simply yielded to her first impulse and followed me up those stairs.
    I T WAS LATE. EVERYONE had gone. The house was silent except for the occasional muffled exchange between my parents. Crawling on top of the covers, my old bed creaking in aged response, I worked on revising my understanding of what had taken place in the barn.
    Gula talked about a secret project. Maybe he was referring to the glorious secret that Gin was talking about. Maybe it was Vera running back and forth. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it had to have been Vera. As for the shoe, well, who knew? The shoe was no big deal. Gin had so many riding students, most of them from privileged backgrounds. Bare feet and topsiders—classic private-school boy insignia, the sheen of wealth encapsulating them like a glistening force field. The kind of boys I publicly ridiculed but privately yearned after.
    The clump of hair probably belonged to a little creature attacked by a predator. It was a woodsy color, a color more wild than domestic. Poor dead rabbit.
    The sound I’d heard. Thought I heard. Was it human? Unlikely. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I had cried out. Maybe I no longer recognized the sound of my own voice.
    What else could I have done? Squeezing my eyes shut, all I could see was the inglorious sight of myself running away, fear elevating me several feet off the ground, the soles of my running shoes caked in straw and horseshit. It wouldn’t be my last experience with misguided supplication. I had a talent for asking myself the wrong questions.
    “Riddle?” The doorknob twisted. I scrambled under the covers.
    “Come in,” I said as my father entered the room, stopping at the doorway.
    “How are you doing? We missed you at supper.”
    “I’m fine.”
    He hesitated, shifting awkwardly in place before approaching my bed and sitting down next to me. “Listen. I know this is a tough time for you, for all of us, your mother especially—as she reminds me on a regular basis. Running for office is sometimes more difficult for the family than for the candidate. After all, you didn’t sign on for this. In the end, you are sacrificing a lot in support of my goals and ambitions. I realize that and I sympathize . . .”
    “It’s all right, Camp,” I said, interrupting.
    “. . . to a point,” he said, completing his thought in a way that suggested his empathy levels were more reminiscent of a fast-drying creek bed than an overflowing reservoir. “So there have been some challenges in the past year. Big deal. It’s a pain in the ass but we’re in the home stretch. The election’s in November. We just need to keep our cool and remember that there are things greater than ourselves. It’s important to have a sense of humility. We’re at war. People are dying, Riddle, suffering, and not just Americans. Do you see that? Do you think about it?”
    I nodded.
    “Good. Because you should. You have a moral obligation to think about others, especially now with social upheaval everywhere. The country is undergoing fundamental changes; the world is changing. Democracy can’t function effectively when its leaders speak with one voice. I want my dissenting voice to be heard. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    Camp looked at me intently. “Do I sound as if I’m giving a speech?”
    “A little bit.” We both laughed.
    “You know, Jimmy, God never promised us a rose garden.”
    He took my hand and held it in his, the clasp of his hand filling me with such warmth. I snuggled down into my bed feeling safe and secure. A calmness came over me, settling round me like a gentle mist. My father smiled. I smiled back. I would tell Camp everything.
    “Camp . . .”
    Bang! A broken branch, buffeted by a sudden loud and swirling gust of wind, hit the window, rattling