probably last year as a counselor. Though he knew she’d probably like to continue on, he also knew she would be moving to San Diego at the end of the summer to attend medical school now that she’d finished her undergraduate degree in Austin that spring and it would become impractical for her to be back next year. Right now, however, he just didn’t want her to discover him in this position.
Moving quickly to assume a more appropriate pose, as if he was looking for something under the sofa, he wheeled about just in time for Cindy to catch his gaze. He grinned up at her with a half-shrug.
“Come in!”
She opened the door and Father Billy saw that she was leaner and more toned this year, as if already taking the idea of a physician’s regimen of a healthy diet and exercise seriously. In another universe, she’d have been a runway model or maybe a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, but she was very serious about her medical studies. A dead aunt with a rare blood-disorder driving her ambition, Father Billy seemed to remember.
“Drop something?” she asked, helpfully.
“A pen. It’s nothing. Just making notes on my welcome speech and it got away from me.”
“Oh, good.” Cindy nodded. “The kids have started wandering out of their cabins, so I think they’re about ready to hear it.”
The kids, Father Billy thought. It wasn’t so long ago that that included you , my dear.
“All right,” said Father Billy, clambering to his feet and pulling himself up to his full height, five or six inches above Cindy. “Now is as good a time as any.”
Father Billy followed Cindy out of the cabin and onto the porch where she reached for a large brass bell that hung off one of the wooden columns. Reportedly having once hung in a firehouse that stood on the Van Ness property, the ringing of it was a sort of unofficial tradition that signaled both the beginning of the campers’ four weeks at Camp Easley, but also the close of camp, the closing bell ringing an honor reserved for the camper who most distinguished themselves over the month.
Clang... clang... clang... clang... clang... clang... clang... clang...
Father Billy tried not to flinch with every strike of the clapper, feigning a smile as the kids made their way over to the administrator’s cabin and arranged themselves in a large semi-circle around the front porch. The other counselors – Pamela, Judy, Humberto, a muscle-bound 22 year-old named George Brockington, a gangly, college senior and regular Charlie Church named Whit Taylor who’d been around as long as Cindy, and, finally, the youngest female counselor, a short-haired, shy whisper-thin girl named Constance Townsend – parked themselves next to the steps around Cindy, who stood next to Father Billy.
Father Billy waited until everyone had assembled and then smiled out at the group.
“Are we all here?” he grinned. “Good.”
His hands fumbled with his address, a piece of paper that appeared to have been folded and re-folded many, many times complete with dark creases across it as if he’d been carrying it in his wallet for weeks, analyzing and re-analyzing his words.
Eyeing this, Cindy thought this odd. There hadn’t been much difference between the welcoming addresses one year to the next to the degree she figured Father Billy must have a template saved on a computer somewhere that he just updated each year like the lesson plans for the Bible study classes.
Father Billy unfolded the paper one last time, stared down at it, then folded it back up and replaced it in his pocket. He looked out over the many faces of the kids, but then turned grim.
“I need to convey to you a message from Our Lord,” Father Billy began, his voice suddenly quivering.
Cindy’s head snapped around to look at the priest with alarm, a couple of the other counselors doing the same. This was not Father Billy’s typical welcoming address.
“The Lord tests us,” Father Billy continued. “And this summer, at this camp,
Moving quickly to assume a more appropriate pose, as if he was looking for something under the sofa, he wheeled about just in time for Cindy to catch his gaze. He grinned up at her with a half-shrug.
“Come in!”
She opened the door and Father Billy saw that she was leaner and more toned this year, as if already taking the idea of a physician’s regimen of a healthy diet and exercise seriously. In another universe, she’d have been a runway model or maybe a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, but she was very serious about her medical studies. A dead aunt with a rare blood-disorder driving her ambition, Father Billy seemed to remember.
“Drop something?” she asked, helpfully.
“A pen. It’s nothing. Just making notes on my welcome speech and it got away from me.”
“Oh, good.” Cindy nodded. “The kids have started wandering out of their cabins, so I think they’re about ready to hear it.”
The kids, Father Billy thought. It wasn’t so long ago that that included you , my dear.
“All right,” said Father Billy, clambering to his feet and pulling himself up to his full height, five or six inches above Cindy. “Now is as good a time as any.”
Father Billy followed Cindy out of the cabin and onto the porch where she reached for a large brass bell that hung off one of the wooden columns. Reportedly having once hung in a firehouse that stood on the Van Ness property, the ringing of it was a sort of unofficial tradition that signaled both the beginning of the campers’ four weeks at Camp Easley, but also the close of camp, the closing bell ringing an honor reserved for the camper who most distinguished themselves over the month.
Clang... clang... clang... clang... clang... clang... clang... clang...
Father Billy tried not to flinch with every strike of the clapper, feigning a smile as the kids made their way over to the administrator’s cabin and arranged themselves in a large semi-circle around the front porch. The other counselors – Pamela, Judy, Humberto, a muscle-bound 22 year-old named George Brockington, a gangly, college senior and regular Charlie Church named Whit Taylor who’d been around as long as Cindy, and, finally, the youngest female counselor, a short-haired, shy whisper-thin girl named Constance Townsend – parked themselves next to the steps around Cindy, who stood next to Father Billy.
Father Billy waited until everyone had assembled and then smiled out at the group.
“Are we all here?” he grinned. “Good.”
His hands fumbled with his address, a piece of paper that appeared to have been folded and re-folded many, many times complete with dark creases across it as if he’d been carrying it in his wallet for weeks, analyzing and re-analyzing his words.
Eyeing this, Cindy thought this odd. There hadn’t been much difference between the welcoming addresses one year to the next to the degree she figured Father Billy must have a template saved on a computer somewhere that he just updated each year like the lesson plans for the Bible study classes.
Father Billy unfolded the paper one last time, stared down at it, then folded it back up and replaced it in his pocket. He looked out over the many faces of the kids, but then turned grim.
“I need to convey to you a message from Our Lord,” Father Billy began, his voice suddenly quivering.
Cindy’s head snapped around to look at the priest with alarm, a couple of the other counselors doing the same. This was not Father Billy’s typical welcoming address.
“The Lord tests us,” Father Billy continued. “And this summer, at this camp,
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