The bus depot was a chaos of parents, children, fishing rods, tennis racquets, and bewildered dogs dragged to see their young masters away. Mothers who had been awaiting the great day for weeks were suddenly stricken with a certainty that their babies would starve without them. A special diet was pressed into Breavman’s hand along with a five-dollar bill.
“I know you’ll look after him,” a woman shouted hurriedly, scanning the crowd meanwhile for someone else to bribe.
Fifteen minutes before the scheduled departure Breavman sneaked into one of the empty waiting buses. He closed his eyes and listened to the confusion beyond the window. What was he doing with these people?
“My name is Martin Stark. Capital S, small t, small a, small r, small k. No e.”
Breavman wheeled around.
In the seat behind him, sitting very stiffly, was a boy of about twelve years. His eyes were incredibly white, not naturally, but as if he were straining to show as much white as possible. This gave him an expression of having just seen a catastrophe.
“Sometimes I spell it with an e and then I have to tear up the page and begin again.”
He spoke in a monotone, but over-articulating each word as if it were an elocution lesson.
“My name is Breavman. Capital B, small r, small e …”
He had been warned about Martin, who was going to be one of his campers. According to Ed, Martin was half-nut, half-genius. His mother was supposed to be ashamed of him. At any rate she never came on Visiting Day. Today, Breavman learned from the boy, she had come an hour early and deposited him in the bus with the command not to stir. Thus she avoided meeting the other parents.
“I’m your counsellor this summer, Martin.”
Martin registered no reaction to this information. He continued to stare beyond Breavman with a kind of vacant, unchanging terror. He had a bony face and a great Caesar nose. Because he generally clenched his teeth when he wasn’t talking, the lines of his jaw were severely outlined.
“What’s your favourite store?” asked Martin.
“What’s yours?”
“Dionne’s. What’s your favourite parking lot?”
“I don’t know. What’s yours?”
“Dionne’s Parking Lot.”
The questions excited Martin because now he asked breathlessly, “How many windows are in the building Dionne’s is in?”
“I don’t know, Martin. How many?”
“In all the walls?”
“Of course all the walls. What good would it do to know the number of windows in only one wall or even three walls?”
Martin supplied a number triumphantly. Breavman idiotically promised himself he would check next time he was in town.
“How many cars were in the Dionne’s Parking Lot last Thursday?”
“Tell me.”
Fifty campers invaded the bus. There was much scrambling and bargaining for seats and Breavman’s rapport with the boy was lost. Martin sat calmly through the ride, mumbling to himself. Breavman learned later that he liked to give himself four-figure numbers to multiply together.
On the way north Breavman asked him, “Do you like the country side?”
“After I investigate it.”