Adam looked at his caller ID. As he didn’t recognize the number, he let it ring. A moment later, his iPhone rang a second time. This time he answered it.
“Is this Adam Herz?” the caller asked, “… the real Adam Herz?” Thinking the caller was a joker, but being somewhat amused, Adam said,
“Yes … but who are you?”
“John Newman. You may not remember but we were in the same cabin at Camp Wannatoo in 1952,” the caller explained. Adam remembered being at that camp, seventy years before, but couldn’t recall someone in the cabin by that name.
“I took a photo of our group and would like to send it to you, — that is, if you want it,” the caller offered. “Do you want the photo?” the caller asked.
“Sure,” Adam said, “… send it.”
A moment later, Adam received an email from John Newman and attached was the photo of a group of young boys in front of a cabin, and another attachment that read as though it were part of a newsletter. Sitting in the front row, Adam recognized himself. He called John Newman.
“Thanks for the photo,” he said. “I recognize myself. Who are the others?”
“Standing in the back are Tommy. Next to Tommy is Irwin, then Eddie, and next to Eddie is Bobby. Sitting in front are Gregg, you, and Billy. I’m not in the picture as I took it,” John explained.
“I remember some of the names but not the faces,” Adam said. “Where are they all now?”
“Dead; they’re all dead,” John told him. “You and I are the only ones still alive.”
On hearing this, Adam was a little disturbed, by the blunt manner by which John Newman conveyed the news. But then, realizing that his cabinmates of seventy years before would have been, like himself, over 80, that they were all dead was perhaps natural.
“When did they die?” Adam was fascinated, that out of the eight boys in his cabin, only John Newman and himself were still around.
“It’s a long story — actually, six long stories,” John said. “Why don’t we meet? I remained in touch with each of them, so I can fill you in on the details. Where have you spent your life?”
“Soon after I graduated from university, my late wife and I moved to France. When she died, I decided to spend the rest of what was remaining of my life, here, in Vermont.”
“Well, let’s you and I get together.”
“When do you want to meet?” Adam asked … hesitating … but he was intrigued.
“Well, how about next week? I spend my summers at my cabin on the Maine coast. Why don’t you drive over and spend a few days. We can catch up.”
“Sure; send me your address. I could come next Monday.”
After he hung up, Adam sat back in his chair, looking at the photo John had emailed and mused about his cabinmates of seventy years before. Was Tommy the swimmer? Or had it been Gregg? Irwin had been a baseball player, he recalled. Who had been good at archery? Eddie? One of the boys had been an adventurer, reading up on caves in the area, always trying to find ones that no one had ever discovered. And then there was …. He looked at the photo closely. One of them had been associated with the theatre; the camp put on plays every summer. Was it … yes, John himself. Adam looked, but couldn’t really attach an activity to their faces.
During his drive to Maine, Adam continued thinking about his cabinmates. He seemed to recall that John had been the camp track star. He wondered what John looked like now? Had he kept in shape over the years? Adam looked forward to hearing John tell him stories associated with each of the boys. As Adam’s days were more or less free now, his visit would be like reading a good book — or perhaps he could turn it into a decent book.
Where John lived was quite isolated and rather barren, Adam thought as he pulled up to the house. The cabin sat almost at the edge of a cliff with a view of the Maine coastline that was breathtakingly dramatic.
“You found me,” John exclaimed. “Here, let me help you,” and took Adam’s overnight case. Adam followed John into the cabin and out onto the porch.
“Your view is quite spectacular,” Adam remarked, looking at the ocean perhaps a couple hundred feet below the cliffs
“It’s my sanctuary,” John replied. “I stay here from May until October, and often take long weekends from time to time during the other months, just to relax. Will you join me for some chardonnay?”
Adam watched John as he left to fetch the wine. He still couldn’t remember him from their summers at Camp Wannatoo. But seeing him was a bit of a shock. While they were more or less the same age, to Adam, John looked a good twenty years older. He walked stooped, with a slight hesitation. As the camp’s track and field star, Adam had expected John to have retained a somewhat solid build, but he was scrawny. What was left of his all-white hair, he wore closely cropped, and though he sported a tan, his complexion was splotchy. John had on a flannel shirt, open at the collar, but missing a couple of buttons, and his grey flannel slacks were stained in places. Instead of shoes or loafers, he wore a pair of well-worn slippers.
“Here you go,” John said as he handed Adam a glass of wine. “To us — the remaining two — and to memories of Camp Wannatoo.”
They sat, chatting about camp. Adam was intrigued by John’s enthusiasm about his experiences at the camp over the summers.
“For me, it opened up a new world,” John said.
“What do you mean?” Adam asked, then added, “I never really liked camp. Living in a cabin, eating camp food, scheduled activities. None of that was for me. I told my parents they were wasting their money, that I would be happier simply staying home ….”
“Doing what? At camp, I picked up that you weren’t a joiner, Adam.”
“I preferred to do things by myself — and I still do. But you said that camp ….”
“It gave me the opportunity to explore the world around me as well as my inner being,” finishing Adam’s question. “It was the theatre.”
“Now I recall that you were always quoting stuff none of us had ever heard of.”
“I was rehearsing the lines of the play I would be acting in. You remember, the camp put on one, sometimes two plays every summer, and I made sure I was in each one. But let’s have dinner, shall we?” Adam followed John to the dining room table.
The cabin consisted of three rooms — the two bedrooms and a central room, part of which was the living space, part, the kitchen, and next to the kitchen, John’s dining room table made of a single hand-sawed wood plank that resembled maple, its pedestal being the root of a dead — but cured — apple tree, John told Adam.
“You must have read about Irwin; it was all over the news,” John told Adam during dinner. “Suicide,” John said, as he cleared the salad plates.
“I remember something about it in the International Herald Tribune. I read the paper religiously when I lived in France, as it was my primary source of news from home,” Adam told him.
“Irwin was a complicated person,” John said when he returned from the kitchen with the roast chicken. “I can still hear him boasting to all of us in the cabin, about the car his father drove — as if a car was something to be proud of.”
“Yeah, he was always telling us that what he — or someone in his family — had was better or worth more than anything any of us had,” Adam said. “It got to be annoying. The chicken is excellent, John. But tell me, how did he commit suicide? I don’t recall that part in the article in the Tribune.”
“We would visit each other from time to time. On my last visit to his place, he began telling me how he regretted all his boasting; Irwin had always been a braggard, even after we left Camp Wannatoo. We were sitting in his living room when he began sobbing and asking me to forgive him.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I guess he thought of me as a close friend. As I said, we would see one another, as old friends do, but I never confided in him and I always thought that whatever he told me was a stretch from the truth. I would read his daily postings on Instagram and Facebook and laugh; I knew they were far from his reality, but that was Irwin.”
“I don’t believe in social media, so I never read any of his postings,” Adam said. “I hope you’ll share your recipe for this chicken; it’s simply the best I’ve ever eaten.” John cut Adam a wing and a leg and placed both on Adam’s plate.
“From his postings, the world must have thought Irwin to be the most generous, loving, considerate, and charming individual on this planet,” John continued. “But I knew better. You know, he had to leave the University of Pennsylvania for plagiarism, and his first wife took him to court for nonpayment of child support? Do you like the wine?” John asked, pouring Adam another glass.
“From what I remember of Irwin at camp, he wasn’t all that smart, and definitely not generous,” Adam recalled. “He would never share any of the packages of candy he received from home, unlike the rest of us.”
“As I was telling you, he invited me to his home, principally to absolve himself of his boastings over the years. I felt I was being asked to act as his father confessor.” John sat back in his chair, and watched as Adam sipped the wine. “Irwin also liked his wine — and his whiskey, too. I think that all his boasting caused him to drink.”
“What do you mean?” Adam asked, placing his glass of wine on the table.
“Drinking, to Irwin, was his penitence. He drowned his boastful pride so that he didn’t have to hear himself. Over the years, he became an alcoholic. He married several times, and each wife divorced him. His children would have nothing to do with him. I was probably the only friend he had left.”
“He must have been miserable,” Adam said.
“He was, and that was probably the reason for him to commit suicide. I knew that he took morphine ….”
“Morphine? That’s a pretty powerful drug.”
“He told me sometime earlier that he needed to take a small dose to sleep. To me, he took it to forget. The last night I was with him we had a couple of drinks with our meal and afterward he told me he just wanted to get some sleep. I said goodnight. That was the last time I saw him alive. The following morning when I got up and went to his room, I found him sprawled across his bed, an open bottle of morphine pills on his night table next to a glass of water. I called an ambulance immediately. The doctor in the ER at the hospital pronounced him dead and an autopsy confirmed my suspicion that he had overdosed on the morphine.”
“I’m driving to your place for the weekend” John texted Irwin.
“Great. I’ll stock my wine cellar and have plenty of booze on hand,” Irwin texted back. Afterward, Irwin speculated about John’s reason for his visit. It was true that over the years they had been accustomed to see one another, but somehow John’s text seemed rather strange — abrupt; he wondered what his friend wanted.
“Glad you stocked up,” were John’s first words when they greeted one another on his arrival.
“I had Sherry-Lehmann ship me a case of Kistler Chardonnay, and I have the Macallan triple cask 15-year-old Scotch you always drink. They were out of the 18-year-old,” Irwin told his friend.
“Let’s have a starter, shall we?’ John suggested as they walked into Irwin’s home.
“Excuse the clutter,” Irwin said. “My housekeeper didn’t come in this week; family emergency. Neat?” he asked.
“One rock; it’s the first ….”
“Since breakfast,” Irwin added, mirthfully.
“Okay; since breakfast. Anyway, you know I always have it on one rock before noon.”
Soon the two friends were drinking the Kistler Chardonnay, John having had three shots of the Macallan, Irwin nursing his first to which he had added a fistful of ice.
“What brings you here?” Irwin asked, refilling John’s wine.
“Nothing special. I needed a first-hand fix of telling you about my life. Instagram isn’t the same as hearing it directly from my mouth,” John laughed.
Irwin smiled, for he knew his friend. He himself liked to boast, but John’s Instagram postings gave pride a bad reputation. They spent the remainder of the afternoon bragging, John recounting about his investments — double-digit returns on the stocks he purchased; about his travels — he recently returned from fishing in Bariloche where he landed the largest fish ever caught in Argentinian waters; about his art collection — he just bought the finest Fauve Derain. Irwin told John about the latest addition to his rare automobiles — the Lamborghini SC18 Alston he picked up for a ‘song’; the George 1 flatware service for 12 with the king’s monogram — until Irwin told John he needed some sleep.
“Can you let me have a few of your morphine pills,” John asked? “I think I need one. I’m all hyped up.”
“Help yourself. They’re in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” Irwin told him.
“Let’s have a nightcap,” John said when he returned to where they were having their drinks. He went into the kitchen and brought back two glasses of Macallan, handing one to Irwin.
“Here’s to us,” John said and drank his shot. “Drink up, my friend.” He watched as Irwin tilted his head back and drank.
“Wow, this stuff is strong,” Irwin said. “I feel woozy, like I’ve had a few ….” He didn’t finish. He tried to rise but sat back down. “What did you give me?” he asked, his head in his hands.
“You just had 250 milligrams of morphine,” John told him.
“Whaaat?” Irwin slurred.
“You heard me. I’ve had enough of your bullshit. All you ever do is talk about yourself, filling your fuckin’ Instagram postings with garbage. Boasting is a sin that is rooted in pride.”
Irwin slumped in his chair, unconscious. John dragged him to his bedroom, undressed him and placed him sprawled across the bed. He brought Irwin’s glass and placed it with the now empty container of morphine pills on the bed beside him wiping them both clean of his own fingerprints. He then left the room, shut the door, and walked into his own bedroom and went to sleep.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, after what you just told me,” Adam said. “My heart is pounding in my chest. But I’ll not ask you for morphine. Good night, John.”
The following day after breakfast, John suggested they take a walk.
“I still can’t get over what you told me yesterday about Irwin,” Adam said as they were walking along the cliff on which John’s cabin was built. “It kept me awake.”
Stopping, John said, “Adam, Irwin was a drunk and wallowed in self-pity. It was a coincidence that I happened to be there when he did it, otherwise I, too, would have found out by reading about it in the New York Times.” They continued walking in silence.
“Ed — do you remember him?” John asked. “Ed left camp early one summer.”
“I vaguely remember. Something about his grandfather.”
“Ed’s grandfather had become rich lending money to recent immigrants,” John began, “charging them exorbitant interest ….”
“Are you saying his grandfather was a loan shark?”
“Ed wouldn’t have called him that, but that’s what his grandfather was. One of his clients couldn’t pay. Ed’s grandfather had his men threaten the guy — you know, break his legs, that sort of thing. I guess the immigrant lost it. He walked into the office when he knew Ed’s grandfather would most likely be alone and killed him.” John said this is such a matter-of-fact tone that Adam thought he hadn’t understood what John was telling him.
“Ed’s parents took him out of Wannatoo. I didn’t hear from him until a few years later,” John continued. “We had both graduated from university by then. He invited me to have lunch with him. During our lunch, Ed told me how he had taken over his grandfather’s business and was now making so much money he didn’t know how to spend nor invest it — other than by expanding his moneylending, but some of the immigrants had made a little and were lending to one another, cutting in on his turf, as he put it. When I told him about a pasta company I was considering to buy, he offered to help me.
“I borrowed the money … reluctantly. I didn’t really need it, but he insisted, almost throwing it at me. I knew Ed was somewhat of a sociopath, making money without thinking of the harm he was causing those who borrowed from him, but he was insistent.” They stopped and admired the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below. “About six months later, Ed came here to visit. By this time, I had just about repaid the loan as the pasta company was doing phenomenal business.
“He probably came to thank me and ask if I had another deal that could use his financing. He said he was still making a fistful off of the immigrants, despite the competition. We were walking along the cliffs, like you and I are now. It was drizzling, making walking a little slippery. I told him to be careful, but Ed was so into telling me about the money he was making, that he wasn’t paying attention. He slipped ….”
“You’re not telling me he ….”
“I’m afraid I am. I tried to grab him, but our hands were wet and I couldn’t hold on. They found him, his head bashed in, on the rocks below.”
“Ed, let’s you and I get together and have lunch,” John suggested in a text. “I have a business proposition I want to discuss with you.”
“You say there’s something you want to talk to me about?” Ed asked when he and John were having lunch the following day. “If I can make a buck, why not? That’s my trade. What do you have in mind?”
“We both have done pretty damn well ….”
“If I’m not for me, who will be? is my motto,” Ed said as he dug into his steak.
“You and I are the same, Ed. One never has enough. Before my parents died in that automobile accident, I made sure I was their sole executor. They trusted me, the poor bastards. Anyway, I’m thinking of buying US Pasta ….”
“That’s a big enterprise, John. Do you have the dough?”
“That’s where you come in. I hope you’ll lend me ….”
“How much?” Ed asked.
“$5 million,” John told him.
“You know my terms.”
“Yeah, but I hope to make a lot on this deal, so I expect to repay you within a year.”
Six months later, Ed called. “John, we need to talk. That loan you begged for; you haven’t made any effort to repay. I’m coming to your cabin this afternoon.”
“Ed, just give me more time,” John asked when they were walking along the cliffs in front of John’s cabin that afternoon. It had been raining but had stopped.
“You know the deal, John. I haven’t made my fortune waiting to be repaid. Either repay the loan ….”
“I’m not one of your immigrants, Ed,” John told him. “No one but you and me knows about our arrangement. Without that loan hanging around my neck I’ll be able to make a hell of a lot more. What are you to me?” John moved closer to the edge, pulling Ed with him. “All you have is an insatiable desire to gain and hoard wealth,” he told Ed … and let go.
Adam said he needed to return to the cabin, that what John had told him was causing him to feel dizzy. They walked back in silence. While Adam wasn’t hungry, John insisted they eat something and suggested he make an omelette. John didn’t appear be to disturbed in recounting the history of their friend’s death while Adam ate without appetite.
“Gregg was a ball of fire,” John said as he helped himself to another slice of the omelette. “Remember the socials the camp put on with the girls from Camp Andrascoggan?”
“Vaguely,” Adam said, but his mind was still on what John had told him that morning.
“Gregg would spend the entire afternoon preparing. He went to the dances all dolled up,” John mused. “He did the same afterward.”
“What do you mean?” Adam asked, returning to the conversation.
“We attended the same university; pledged the same fraternity. We even shared a room together our junior year. While I studied, Gregg talked about girls. It was like he had a perpetual hardon. Lust, pure and simple. More omelette?” he offered.
“No thanks, but I will, a cappuccino,” Adam told him. While John was making the cappuccinos, Adam tried to recall what Gregg looked like; all he could picture was a scrawny kid with hair growing out in every direction. Definitely not the sexy person John was describing.
“He got one of those diseases, the kind you get when you don’t use condoms. I never met a hornier guy.” John went to the kitchen and brought back some shortbread biscuits. “Have one,” and handed Adam the plate. “But his appetite didn’t stop at women. Gregg craved almost everything, but it was mostly his appetite for women that did him in.”
“What do you mean?” Adam asked.
“He wanted to come here, he said to get away for a few days. I thought it would be fun, so I agreed. When he arrived, he had a woman with him. Given his history, I didn’t say anything, but suggested — strongly — that the woman take his car and drive back to Boston, that I would bring Gregg with me as I had to return there that Monday. She agreed, and left.
“We had a few drinks with lunch and then Gregg announced that he wanted to take my kayak and tour the shoreline. I told him I didn’t think it a good idea as the kayak was to use in the nearby lake, not in the ocean. But Gregg insisted. I watched as he carried the kayak to the cliffs and down the stone steps to the inlet below. That was the last I saw of him … until his body washed up the next morning.”
“Gregg, this is John. D’you want to join me this weekend? The weather is beautiful. I guarantee you won’t regret it … you know what I mean.”
When Gregg arrived later that afternoon, he was greeted by a stunning woman wearing nothing but 6” red stilettos and a single strand of pearls.
“Hi,” she said as she opened the door of Gregg’s car and lifted him out into a bear hug., her ruby-red lips planted firmly on his.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Gregg gasped when she released him.
“John said I should entertain you until he returns.” She took Gregg by the arm and brought him into the cabin and straight to the guest bedroom, closing the door behind them.
Two hours later, when John returned from his shopping expedition in the village, the lady opened the bedroom door — still dressed in stilettos and the pearl necklace — walked to where John was standing, held out her hand into which John placed the keys to his suburban … and left.
“Did you have fun?” John smirked when Gregg — naked — emerged from the bedroom, looking a little bedraggled, staggering to the kitchen.
“That was one hot lady,” Gregg managed to say between gulps of water.
“I told you you could expect a good time,” John said. “I had her during the night, so I know exactly what you mean. Do you feel like taking the kayak for a spin?”
“I think I came three times,” Gregg gasped. “It was amazing; I stayed hard the entire time. She’s dynamite. I wish she’d stayed.”
“When we go back to Boston, I’ll ask her to join us. It won’t be the first time you and I shared,” John told him.
Gregg put on shorts and followed John along the cliffs and down the stone steps to where John left his kayak.
“Get in the bow,” John instructed Gregg. “You don’t look steady ….”
“After what that lady put me through? You’d still be prostrate on your bed,” and Gregg howled with laughter.
They pushed off, John paddling in the stern while Gregg spread his legs and basked in the sun. A couple hundred yards off the shore, John rested his paddle on his thighs.
“A man who uses his body for lechery wrongs the Lord,” he said.
“What are you talking about? Now you’re sounding like a self-righteous minister,” Gregg told him, still stretched out with his eyes closed. “Are you speaking about yourself?”
“When a person seeks sex for pleasure, he’s sinning with lust.” Saying this, John rose to his feet and, with the paddle, smacked Gregg on the side of his head. Then, rocking the kayak, tipped it over, sending Gregg into the swirling waters.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Gregg gasped when he surfaced.
John swam over to a flailing Gregg and, with force, pushed Gregg’s head under the water and held it there until he felt no movement in Gregg’s struggling body. He then dragged Gregg’s lifeless body underneath the overturned kayak and swam to the shore.
“Would you like another cappuccino?” John asked.
“No thanks. If you don’t mind, I might take a walk in your garden,” Adam told him. What John had recounted about Gregg had shaken Adam. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
“Why don’t we meet for drinks, say, around 5:00?” John suggested.
Strolling in the perennial garden, John’s recounting about Gregg and how he died hit Adam like a cold gust. He pulled his sweater closer around his body. Actually, thinking back to Camp Wannatoo, he thought Gregg was gay, but given what John had just told him, that must have been one of the other boys. He couldn’t imagine anyone having such a strong sexual desire that it controlled his life — and, eventually, his death. Poor Gregg, — but then, he died a happy man, Adam imagined.
“What do you think of my roses?” John asked when they met for drinks later that afternoon.
“Beautiful, and somewhat unusual,” Adam told him, “… especially the deep lavender ones.”
“Yes, those I had a difficult time getting. Wine?” John asked.
“Red, please.”
“There was this woman — a rose aficionado — who belonged to the same country club as I did. We would talk about gardens and flowers, and one day she invited me to visit her place. There I saw the deep lavender rose for the first time. I wanted it.”
“Did she tell you where to buy a bush?”
“No, she changed the subject, but I pursued the issue, because I simply had to have it. I knew her husband was in a bit of a financial bind, so … I offered him a deal that I knew he wouldn’t — couldn’t — refuse … and part of my offer was the rose that you saw in my garden. Let’s have dinner.” Adam couldn’t blame John for wanting the rose; it was unique.
“Shall I continue telling you about the others?” John asked. Adam understood he was referring to the boys in their cabin at camp, but after hearing him tell Adam how Irwin, Ed, and now Gregg, died, he wasn’t as keen as he had been after he received his initial email, — but he was still curious.
“Remember Billy?”
“Was he the camper who seemed envious every time one of us received a package from home?”
“Right. Billy received more packages than any of us, yet he was always there, right beside whoever was opening a parcel. It was as though he felt he should have been the one receiving the package. Talk about feeling entitled. More potatoes? As we lived in the same city, we would each other occasionally — perhaps more than I saw the others — so I witnessed his behavior. He knew I collected handguns — some exceedingly rare — and asked if I would show him my collection. Shall we continue on the porch? I’ll bring our coffees.” Adam followed him and, while they drank their coffee, John continued.
“I agreed, and Billy confided in me that he, too, had started collecting handguns — to me, he was jealous of my collection — and was always looking for one that no one else owned. When he arrived at my home, he couldn’t wait to see what I had. I felt he was too anxious. Some people collect Fabergé, some, Impressionists, others, vintage wines; I collect rare handguns.
“I keep them in drawers in a vault in my basement, and only I know its combination. Billy’s eyes were brighter than the evening stars and his hands trembled as I opened drawer after drawer. He asked if he could handle them. I was a little embarrassed by the manner in which he touched their surfaces, almost caressing them.” John got up and walked to the edge of the porch, then turned.
“I hesitated before letting him handle the guns, as his hands were trembling, but he assured me that it was nothing but excitement. He was admiring my Colt 1849 pocket revolver, telling me he never seen one like it — it’s gold-inlaid — when my phone rang. I left him and went upstairs to answer it. As I was putting back the receiver, I heard a shot. I raced down to the vault, and there I saw Billy. He must have been fondling the Colt and it went off, hitting him in the forehead.”
“Billy, come on down to my place this weekend. I bought a revolver at auction recently that I know you’ll drool over,” John suggested when he spoke to his friend.
Later, when they were talking in John’s living room, “I noticed how you touched the Holland & Holland Royal Deluxe in my collection,” Billy told John. “You were obviously so envious that I knew you would find one even rarer, just to be one up on me.”
“I deserve to have the one I’m going to show you,” John said.
“What is it?” Billy asked, becoming excited at the prospect of handling John’s latest purchase.
“It’s a Colt ….”
“John, a Colt is a common handgun.”
“Not this one. Come, I’ll show it to you.” John led Billy down the stairs to the basement vault where he kept his collection. Inside the vault, he opened a drawer and took out the handgun, handing it to Billy.
“Wow. This is beautiful. I wouldn’t mind owning one like this,” Billy said, caressing the gun’s gold-inlaid handle.
“Check the barrel; it’s as smooth as silk, the inside too,” John told him. Billy raised the gun to eye level and peered into the interior of its barrel.
“Ever since we met at Camp Wanatoo, I felt you envied me,” John said with contempt.
“This gun is amazing,” Billy said, not listening to John.
“You’ve always felt entitled and deprived ….”
“The interior of its barrel is as beautiful as its exterior,” Billy said, closing his left eye and peering inside the barrel of the gun.
“I could never understand your reason for feeling someone — God? — owed you something ….”
“What are you saying?” Billy asked, the barrel of the gun almost touching his eye.
“You know, Billy, envy is ugly and destructive ….” and with one quick step, John was in front of Billy with both hands wrapped around Billy’s hands that were holding the gun. John pulled the trigger. Billy fell to the ground.
“Where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice,” he preached, looking at his dead friend. John then went upstairs and called 911.
“You didn’t know it was loaded?” Adam asked.
“I had only recently purchased it at auction, so I assumed it wasn’t.”
Adam was shocked by what John had told him, but John continued to drink his wine, looking off in the distance. Adam felt his heart racing and started to have difficulty breathing. Since he arrived, John had told him that four of their cabinmates had died tragically, and there were still two more histories to recount. Adam began hoping that the two had died of heart attacks, — even cancer would be more acceptable than how Irwin, Ed, Gregg, and Billy had met their ends.
“I think I’ll take a nap,” Adam told John.
“Do you take naps often?” John asked.
“I do, just not every day. This visit has been trying for me.”
“If I remember, at camp you would go to our cabin after lunch while the rest of us played softball or went swimming. Did you nap then?” John’s tone appeared to Adam to be judgmental, as though it were indolent to nap other than at night. Adam decided to ignore John’s comment and went to his bedroom.
“How was your nap?” John asked as Adam came out of his bedroom two hours later. When Adam didn’t reply, John asked,
“Shall I tell you about Tommy?”
“Can it wait ‘til later?” Adam asked. “I need some time to fully take in what you told me about Billy.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you feel. We’ll talk about Tommy over dinner.”
While Adam really didn’t feel like having John tell him of another tragic ending, he needed to close the book on the fates of Tommy and Bobby. “Why don’t we walk along the cliffs; you can tell me while we stroll,” Adam said.
“Tommy died in a truly tragic way,” John said as they were walking. “If you remember, he loved food ….”
“I recall he was always the first one in the dining room,” Adam said, still not having fully recovered, but the breeze felt refreshing.
“Not only was he the first one, he piled his plate so high he couldn’t see over it when we all sat at the table to eat,” John continued, smiling at the memory.
“We all thought it funny, at the time.”
“But you see, Adam, it wasn’t at all funny. It was gluttony, pure gluttony.” John’s voice had become deeper and he seemed, to Adam, to be making a point — of what, Adam didn’t understand, then. In Adam’s memory, John vied with Tommy for who could eat the most. They continued walking in silence, with only the water of the Atlantic slapping the boulders below.
“Over the years, I would see Tommy, usually for a dinner. He knew I owned a pasta company and at one of our dinners he asked if he might visit as he was curious to observe how pasta — real pasta — was made. So, I invited him.
“When he arrived, he immediately asked to visit the factory where he made a beeline for the machine into which we feed the pasta dough, extruding it in different widths, depending on the type of pasta we’re making.” As John told the story, Adam gazed out into the sea, admiring the seagulls flying.
“I was explaining to Tommy the steps from which dough is fed into the machine, when one of my workers called me away to ask a question. That’s when it happened.” As John said this, Adam turned and looked at his friend.
“What happened?” Adam asked, an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
“Tommy must have leaned over the machine and lost his balance ….”
“You’re not saying ….”
“He lost his balance, and reaching for something with which to hold himself, his arm slipped in front of the grinder, pulling his body into the machine.”
“John, I need to rest; the drive here was very tiring,” Tommy said as he got out of his car in the parking lot of US Pasta, John’s company. John had insisted he visit the pasta factory that John had recently purchased.
“Come on, Tommy; you can rest after we visit the factory.” As it was noon, all the workers were having their lunch in the factory’s cafeteria.
“I wanna see how you make the dough,” Tommy said as they entered John’s factory.
“We’ll see that later. Come, I want to show you the extruder. I think you’ll enjoy watching the strands of pasta created from a mountain of dough,” John told him.
As they stood in front of the extruding machine, John turned on the machine, then placed a hand firmly in the small of Tommy’s back.
“Why are you pushing me?” Tommy asked.
“You’re a fuckin’ glutton, Tommy. You were always the first in line for dinner and you ate like a pig.” John’s hand pushed Tommy closer to the machine. “I hate gluttons,” and he pushed harder, until Tommy’s body was bent over the extruding machine.
“Fuck, John, stop pushing me. I’ll lose my balance.”
“This is what gluttons like you deserve,” and John pushed so hard that Tommy fell into the conveyor that was moving the dough into the grinder.
“John, stop …” were his last words as the claws of the grinder caught Tommy’s arm and pulled his whole body into the machine.
“He must have died instantly. When I heard a scream, I turned, but there was nothing I could do. My foreman turned off the machine immediately, but it was too late. Tommy was pronounced dead by the nurse in our infirmary.”
“What an awful way to die,” Adam said, feeling nauseated by the image. “You must have been shaken, — after all, it occurred in your factory.”
“I can tell you, Adam, I was paralyzed. I closed the factory, of course. But let’s talk about more pleasant things.” They continued along the path back to the cabin, trying to make chitchat, but all Adam could think of was the vision of Tommy being sucked into the pasta grinder.
“Do you remember Bobby?” John asked as they were walking back to the cabin.
“Bobby? Was he the boy that always appeared to be angry?” Adam wondered.
“Bobby and I attended the same grammar school and high school in Philadelphia,” John continued, “… so I had witnessed this kind of behavior before and after. Bobby was kicked out of our high school for trying to blackmail a teacher. It seems Bobby compromised this teacher, and when the teacher wouldn’t give him an ‘A’ in some course, Bobby told him he’d tell the principal that the teacher had been sexually harassing him. The teacher hauled Bobby to the principal who believed the teacher and expelled Bobby. In those days, people believed teachers and priests, not like today.”
They returned to the cabin. Adam told John he needed to lie down. They decided to meet for dinner. Adam wasn’t sure what it was, but, to him, John always seemed to be there when something happened. While what John just told him about Bobby could be true, he was having doubts. He decided to spend the night and leave in the morning.
“Bobby enjoyed exploring, especially caves,” John told Adam while they were having drinks before dinner. “I’m not the adventurous type, but he insisted that I join him in France, to visit and explore some the caves in the Dordogne. I. knew not to refuse; agreeing to accompany him was, to me, easier than having him rage at me for not being there for him.”
“Jeanne and I also visited caves in the Dordogne, as it wasn’t a long drive from where we were living on the Côte d’Azur.”
“A few years later, Bobby heard of some — to his way of thinking — really interesting caves in Thailand.”
“Is that where the school boys and their leader got lost and had to be rescued?”
“Yes, and I was against it because of the risk, but Bobby persisted. When we arrived in Bangkok, the rains had stopped, so we set out for the first cave on Bobby’s list, Mae Hong Son. Then, we visited the Phi Phi Islands where there are cliffs — like mine — and clear coves. All was going well, and I didn’t feel any tension or fear. Then Bobby insisted that we explore the Tham Luang Nang Non cave; it’s between Thailand and Myanmar. I looked it up. I said I would go with him but would not enter the cave.”
“Why” Adam asked.
“It’s over six miles long, with deep recesses, narrow tunnels, boulder chokes, collapses, and sumps. While I was fascinated by the stalagmites I’d seen in the Dordogne caves — and there were even more in the Tham Luang cave — my interest stopped when I read about the dangers this cave presented, especially as we would be there in the off-season when guided tours had stopped. But that’s what drove Bobby; he loved danger.”
Adam listened, fearing what might come next. John appeared to be relaxed, as though he were telling Adam about his last golf game.
“We parked at the entrance to the cave. Its entrance is really out of this world — vast, high ceiling, many crevices. You could get lost just exploring the entrance. I told him I’d wait for him there, that he shouldn’t stay exploring for more than a couple of hours. He’d checked where the master switch was for the lights that had been installed after school kids had been lost in 2018, and turned them on.
“While he explored, I sat and read a book I’d brought with me. After about an hour, I started to worry, but we had agreed that he could take a couple of hours, so I took up my book and tried to concentrate on reading. Suddenly, the lights went off; I wasn’t left in total darkness because the entrance to the cave was close by. I waited. I couldn’t read; I worried. From time to time, I called out, but Bobby didn’t answer. When it started to become dark outside, I decided to drive back to the nearest town and ask for help. The local police said they couldn’t look for Bobby that night but would form a party and begin the search the next morning.”
Adam was becoming extremely uncomfortable. He silently wished he had the guts to tell John to stop, that he didn’t want to hear any more.
“The local people were very considerate, offering me a place to stay and encouraging me to remain hopeful, but as the days went by, I realized that, given the complexity of the cave, they probably wouldn’t find him. After a week, the chief of the town told me that there was little chance Bobby had survived and he was ending the search. Bobby was never found.”
One day, when John and Bobby were throwing a ball after school, “Why do you hate Mr. Notkin so much?” Bobby asked John.
“He’s gay,” John told him.
“So? I’m gay too, and you don’t hate me,” Bobby said, catching the ball and tossing it back.
“You’re different” John caught the tossed ball and put his arm around his friend. “I like you,” and he brought Bobby closer. “I’ll give you my baseball signed by Joe Dimaggio if you suck Notkin’s dick,” John told him in an offhand manner.
“You would?” Bobby said, disbelievingly; he had coveted that baseball ever since John had shown it to him.
“Notkin wants my ass,” John said, and began whistling. “He more or less told me one day after gym class when he came into the locker room as I was undressing. You and I will meet him after class tomorrow and we’ll ‘do’ him together.” John bent his head and kissed his friend.
The following day, when Bobby walked into the classroom after classes had been dismissed for the day, he saw John talking with the teacher who was sitting on his desk; with John between the teacher’s legs.
“He’s all ready for you,” John said as he unzipped the teacher’s pants. Bobby went over and knelt down, reaching for the teacher’s exposed crouch with his mouth. John leaned over his friend and, reaching in back of the teacher’s head, brought the teacher’s face to his and kissed him.
“You fuckin’ faggot,” John hissed in the teacher’s face. “I’m going to report you to the principal,” and he turned to leave.
“Hold on there, John,” the teacher said, leaving the desk and pulling up his pants.
“You’re nothing but a fuckin’ faggot,” John repeated.
“I’ll take you there myself,” and the two of them left the classroom with Bobby wondering what was going to happen. He followed them to the principal’s office and waited outside. A little while later, John opened the door, his face red, and marched past Bobby and down the hall. Bobby ran after him, catching up as John left the school building.
“What happened?” he asked, jogging to keep up with his friend.
“You’re a fuckin’ faggot, Bobby. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been expelled. The fuckin’ principal believed that fuckin’ teacher, that’s what happened.”
A few years later, while the two friends were lunching in the Four Seasons Restaurant, John suggested they explore some caves in Thailand.
“I want to go,” John told his friend.
“It’s risky, John,” Bobby told him. “I don’t.”
“You’re such a faggot. What can happen?” John called the waiter over.
“What kind of crap do you serve in this establishment?” he asked. “Take my steak back to the kitchen and bring me one that’s eatable.” Turning to Bobby, “For the prices they charge, they ought to please their customers,” he said. Over the years, Bobby had accustomed himself to John’s abrupt — some would call it rude — manner. “I’ve bought the plane tickets, so you’re coming with me,” John informed his friend.
Arriving in Thailand, John and Bobby drove up to the entrance to the Tham Luang cave and parked. No other cars were there, which John had anticipated as it was the off-season when guided tours had ended. They entered the cave and John, who had inquired as to the location of the light switches, turned on the lights, illuminating the vast entrance and the crevices leading to the tunnels that he intended to explore. After they spent time walking around the chamber, John decided to take one of the tunnels and begin.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“You go; I’ll wait for you here,” Bobby told him.
“My ass, you will; you’re coming with me,” and he put his arm around Bobby’s shoulders and kissed him. “There will be more of that later. Come on,” and he brought his friend with him as they entered one of the tunnels.
Using a map that he was given by one of the locals, John led them down a very narrow passage, passing openings to other tunnels and finally entered a chamber that was much smaller than the one at the entrance to the cave.
“You stay here,” he told Bobby. “I need to go back ….”
“What for? John, I don’t want to be left here without you,” Bobby said.
“Don’t worry your sweet ass; I won’t be but a few minutes,” and he left. Twenty minutes later, John was at the entrance of the cave.
“Ever since I was expelled from school because of you, I’ve been resentful and full of rage,” he ranted in the void. “I wanted revenge, and now I have it. Goodbye, Bobby.” He walked over to the electrical panel and switched off the lights. Everything went dark. He stood in the entrance for over an hour, listening. At first, he heard muffled shouts, far off, but they became less and less distinct … until … nothing. Silence.
John then left and drove to the city. The next day, he took a flight back to Los Angeles.
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll turn in,” Adam told John. “It’s been a long day and I want to get back home; I’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Adam needed to get away, away from this place and away from John. John’s telling him about how Bobby had died convinced him that Bobby’s death and the deaths of others weren’t accidents. He was beginning to suspect that John had something to do with how each had died. John hadn’t appeared disappointed or distressed that they had died leaving the two of them as the sole survivors.
“Stay for lunch and leave afterward. I’ll make the chicken again, and for dessert, what about rhubarb pie? I grow it in my vegetable garden and it’s ripe now.”
Adam decided there would be no harm in John’s suggestion and said goodnight. He entered his room and locked the door.
During the night, he had numerous dreams — really, nightmares — relating to his cabinmates. He would wake up thinking that he had been present when each had died. Throughout the night he had a presentiment, why? He couldn’t say, except that Irwin, Ed, Gregg, Billy, Tommy, and finally Bobby had all died under suspicious circumstances. Feeling as he did caused him to sleep fitfully.
When he left his room in the morning, John was in the kitchen.
“Eggs?” John asked. “I’ll fried a couple and you can eat them outside on the patio.”
Adam didn’t argue with him; he was still too worn down emotionally to object. Perhaps the cool morning air would revive him, he thought.
“If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen preparing our lunch. I said I would roast a chicken and we’ll have a fresh rhubarb pie for dessert. I hope you like spinach because that’s what I’ll make to go with the chicken.”
“All sounds good to me,” Adam told him. “I might take a walk.”
After he left, Adam’s mind reverted to thoughts of the boys in their cabin at camp. Was it purely coincidental that each had died in a bizarre way and that John always seemed to be present? John did tell him that he had remained friends with each of them, and that they had visited one another periodically over the years — until they died. But what was his reason for looking Adam up? They were never close, even as cabinmates.
These thoughts went through Adam’s mind over and over, as he walked along the cliffs. Two hours later, he returned to the cabin.
“Lunch is ready,” John said as Adam entered. He sat down, but wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t wait for it to be over and leave.
“I’ve enjoyed your being here, Adam. Breast or leg? I’ll give you a little of each. The spinach is quite good. I doctor it with an excellent sherry. Hope you like it,” and he served Adam from one bowl, serving himself from another bowl. Perhaps Adam was being a little too suspicious, but he asked himself why John had served him from a different bowl than he had served himself? Why two bowls?
“Excuse me a moment; start without me.” John got up and went to his bedroom.
To Adam, something was strange. The bowls looked the same … but were they?
“How’s the chicken?” John asked when he returned. “And the spinach? I cooked up this recipe based on one I found in an early Martha Stewart cookbook.”
Adam watched John who appeared to be enjoying the meal.
“You never told me what you and your late wife did in France. Eat up, Adam; there’s fresh rhubarb pie for dessert.”
“We helped Jeanne’s parents ….”
“They lived there?”
“They were French, our reason for settling in their village.”
“Where was that? Eat, don’t let me distract you.” Adam felt John was watching him.
“A village perché on the Côte d’Azur, just north of Nice. They owned a country inn in the village.”
“Did it keep you busy?” John coughed and wiped his forehead with his napkin.
“As much as we wanted; I spent most of my time cycling in the region, and sketching.” John was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Anything wrong?” Adam asked.
“I seem to be having a little trouble breathing; it’ll pass.”
It was not only John’s breathing that was giving him trouble; Adam noticed that John lifted his fork with difficulty.
“John, are you okay?”
“I think I’ll lie down, but you go on eating.” John got up and began walking, but stumbled. Adam rushed over and helped him to the couch.
“It must have been something I ate; I’m finding it hard to … get my breath. Have you eaten your spinach?”
“John, you have to tell me what’s been going on. Was there something in the bowl of spinach you served me?”
“I need … a … doctor.”
“I won’t call anyone until to tell me.”
John couldn’t move; to Adam, he appeared paralyzed.
“Spinach…,” John said, and fell back, coughing, making harsh sounds when breathing.
“What are you saying?”
“I gave you … cough … cough … spinach … cough …,” he whispered.
“John, whatever you served me, you ate. I suspected you have been lying to me. When you went to your bedroom, I switched bowls. You have to tell me what was in the bowl you meant me to eat, because you ate it.” Adam looked at the man. John’s mouth was open and drool was oozing from both sides of his mouth.
“Rhubarb,” John whispered. “I … cooked … rhubarb leaves ….” John’s head rolled to one side; his breathing had become heavy and labored.
Adam googled rhubarb: After WW 1, some people in England died from ingesting the green leaf of rhubarb believing it to be edible, not knowing it contained toxic levels of oxalic acid and anthrone glycosides.
Suddenly Adam understood. John had eaten the green leaf of the rhubarb he had meant for Adam to eat. Unless Adam called for help, John would fall into an irreversible coma and eventually die, like the people had in England after WW 1. John had intended to kill him.
“Why did you want to kill me?” Adam asked, bewildered.
John turned and stared at Adam. “You … the others … cabin … behavior … sinful ….” John raised himself, to help his breathing, but slumped back. “Please … my doctor,” he pleaded.
“Not until I know the whole story,” Adam told him, watching John struggle.
“Same … behavior … myself … I … hated myself ….”
“You killed the boys in our cabin,” Adam told him.
“Killing them … would exorcize … me ….” His breathing became more sporadic, his voice, a mere rasping. “… free me ….”
“And I was to be the last, was that your plan? You meant for me to eat the green leaf of the rhubarb?”
“You died … I … only … left; I … free.” John was barely breathing and his chest heaved.
“John, you’re a bastard and don’t deserve to live. You’re nothing but a sloth. You thought eliminating others would release you? Killing our cabinmates, including me, you chose the easy way, instead of working on your problems.” Adam paused, to see if John was hearing what he was telling him.
John started coughing spasmodically. Adam handed him a napkin. John coughed into it — blood. “I told you … everything; … a doctor,” he gasped.
“No. You want release from what you tell me has been bothering you a lifetime? I’m going to set you free. I’m leaving. You’re going to die — and gain your freedom.”
Adam cleaned up the lunch dishes and put away all signs of his having been there. He heard John moan and scream from his prone position on the couch. Adam didn’t have to restrain him because John couldn’t move. The poison in the rhubarb greens was doing its job.
Adam packed his things and went over to the couch to see John one last time. He saw a pathetic creature, not a man worth saving.
He walked to the door and left.
E.P. Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, more than 60 of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.
