IT WAS AMMON’S VOICE. BEN didn’t remember the ring of the phone, did not remember lifting it to his ear. For a moment, he felt as if Ammon was—at last—inside his head.
“This gal,” he was saying, “She’s askin’ questions about Frank, Benny. I’m gonna take her ta tha cabin. Ya arrange for her ta meet him.”
Ben hung up.
He lifted Dinko over his shoulder—he was barely the weight of a sack of grain—and, outside, flopped him into the back of his truck, and drove to Ed’s. He and Ed tossed the body into the shit pit behind the barn. For a moment, Dinko floated in the cow slurry. He looked small and vulnerable. He might have gone away with his kilos and never come back. He might have been no further trouble. The shit blubbed gently, enfolding him.
In East Montrose, Ben swung into Kamp Wahoo. The kids were massed around the pool, they swarmed, interconnected by hands, by laughter. Water arced into the air in silver drops, water gleamed on their bodies, they were bejeweled with water. A boy did a somersault off the diving board, a trio of girls jumped in holding hands, screaming. Why had he never had this, why only the bitter late autumn, the motel pools always empty?
Frank had given him summer.
He saw a woman with a whistle and a clipboard.
“Hello, ma’am.” He tipped his hat.
“How can I help you?” She appraised him objectively, a good-looking guy, a man, a stranger among small children.
“I wanted to find out more about your program for my son,” he said.
She softened, the clipboard lowered, she extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Phoebe. I run the camp. We’d love to have your son. How old is he?”
“Five.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jake.”
“Five is a great age for Jake to start with us.” She rattled off the activities, arts and crafts, field trips, all-inclusive lunch, the swimming lessons, the storytime, did he want to come this year—there were still a few places.
Ben nodded, attending. He took the flier she gave him that contained all the necessary information and an application form. “My friend’s kids go here, and they just love it.”
“Oh? I’m sure they do! Who are they?”
“Kay Ward’s kids.”
The woman looked back at him. “I’m sorry. We don’t have them here.”
Ben lightly tapped his open palm with the flier. He gave her his warm smile. “My mistake. But it looks like a great program. I’ll definitely keep it in mind.”