By late afternoon, they reached camp. Sheila and Carrie were boiling water on the camp stove. Clay and Joanna let their packs slide to the ground and sat down.

"Hi, you two," said Sheila. "The boys are up at the waterfall. We made good progress on the ridge trail today." She shook her short blonde hair out of her eyes as she lifted the water pot off the stove.

"All done for the day?" asked Clay.

Sheila and Carrie glanced at each other. "Well, almost everyone is," said Carrie with a smile.

"Meaning?" asked Clay.

"Meaning, well, K.C. said he left something for you by your tent. He said you would understand," said Carrie.

Joanna watched Clay stride towards a tan and yellow tent, set among the trees up the slope from the cooking area and fire ring. Sheila and Carrie laughed, turned to Joanna, and explained.

"This morning, before he left to go down to meet you, Clay said he'd work on the trails a couple of hours after he got back, so we could keep on schedule," said Sheila.

"Plus, he said he'd bring back more food," said Carrie.

"He did," said Joanna.

Clay returned with K.C.'s reminder, a shovel, and tossed it onto the ground. He also had a blue towel thrown over his shoulder. Joanna couldn't help thinking that Clay looked great in blue.

"Yeah, I haven't forgotten. Let me get a drink and I'm off." He rummaged in a bag, pulled out a packet of powdered lemonade, and dumped it into a bottle of water.

"Joanna, the girls will help you find something to drink or eat and get you settled. See y'all later." And he headed off in the direction of the ridge.

"So what did you two do today?" asked Joanna. She'd known Sheila and Carrie for the last month. They had all been counselors in neighboring cabins.

"Oh, cut back brush from the trails mostly, " said Carrie. "Sheila ripped open a blister on her hand--too much machete work, girl--so we're down here trying to clean it out and bandage it up. You should have worn gloves, Sheila."

"How was the hike up?" asked Carrie.

"Really nice, " said Joanna. "We saw two deer on the river trail."

"The river trail?" asked Carrie immediately. "You took the river trail?"

"Yes," said Joanna. "It was beautiful, and not as steep as the other path."

"Clay took the river trail?"

"Uhhh, yes," said Joanna. Carrie and Sheila exchanged glances. Joanna wondered if she had said or done something she wasn't supposed to.

"Sheila, do you remember Clay ever taking the river trail?" asked Carrie.

"No, I don't," said Sheila.

"And he was like, normal?" asked Carrie. Joanna nodded. "Sorry to grill you like this, Joanna. Here, let's get you something to drink. It's just that this is so ... interesting. K.C.'s gonna love this."

"Joanna, welcome back to counselor gossip! C'mon, we'll show you our tent," Sheila said, gesturing toward a blue tent in the opposite direction from Clay's. "We have room for one more inside. The guys have two tents for the four of them, Clay and K.C. up there," she said, pointing up the slope, "and Sam and Dave on the other side of those huckleberry bushes."

After working for a couple of hours, Clay headed back down toward camp. He stopped at the waterfall on his way. It was growing dark. He wondered how Joanna was doing. He took off his shirt and shoes and sat on a flat rock at the pond's edge. He rinsed off his feet and splashed water on his back. It was a clear night and he could see the moon rising, a golden disk just above the horizon. The clouds of the last few nights were gone. Joanna had returned and so had the moon.

After they had eaten and washed the dishes, the group gathered to build a fire. Joanna wandered off to the girls' tent and came back with her mandolin.

"Joanna, music!" exclaimed Dave when he saw her mandolin.

"Woo hoo!" said Carrie.

"Well, don't expect much. I'm new to playing and I don't know that many songs. So, if it's all right, I'll just fool around in the background. You all just keep on talking or whatever you want to do," said Joanna.

"Clay, can you come over here with me for a minute?" asked Joanna. Clay looked at her, an eyebrow raised in question, and followed her a short distance from the fire. Joanna put her foot up on a stump, placed the mandolin strap over the front of her right shoulder, and asked, "Can you sing me an A?"

Clay smiled and sang an A. Joanna tuned first one A string and then the second. "I know it's hard, but try not to listen to the mandolin. Just sing true A. I need to tune to you, not the other way around." Clay closed his eyes and sang A again.

"Now G." Clay sang G. She could have tuned the whole mandolin with just one or two sung notes, but she asked for the last two notes as well. Just to hear his voice.

"Now D."

"And E. Next octave up." Even though he sang just four simple notes, the sound of his voice sent a thrill through Joanna, bringing back memories of the night they had met by the river and she first had heard him sing.

When she was done tuning to Clay, she strummed the four pairs of strings in succession, listening carefully to the sound of each string in relation to the others. She made a few minor adjustments. "Good enough," she said. "Thanks."

They returned to the now blazing fire. Clay spread a blanket on the ground, and he and Joanna sat on it a little ways back from the fire. The others sat closer, talking and teasing, occasionally changing places to avoid the shifting smoke.

Joanna propped herself against a log, gripped the pick loosely in her right hand, and strummed the mandolin. She picked out a few notes and then a few phrases. She closed her eyes and listened to her instrument against the background of nighttime sounds--the rustling of a breeze in the trees, the crackling of the fire, the call of an owl. Because the mandolin is a beautiful instrument, Joanna felt a responsibility to play it as beautifully as possible. She wanted others to hear how the mandolin could sing. Suddenly aware that everyone had stopped talking, she opened her eyes. They were all watching her. She stopped playing.

"I'm not very good at being the center of attention," she said softly to Clay.

"OK," he said. He stood and joined the inner circle around the fire. "Is it marshmallow time, yet?" he asked.

"If you like them charred to a crisp," answered Sheila.

"Where are the sticks from last night?" asked Dave. And soon the whole group was involved in roasting marshmallows. Clay looked back at Joanna, his hair a deep red in the firelight, and winked.

Under the buzz of their talking, Joanna began to play. She tooled around, plucking phrases, strumming chords, playing a few short and simple bluegrass tunes that she used to play on guitar and had transferred over to mandolin. The mandolin had such a clear, high sound, that the experience of playing the songs was completely different from on guitar. She loved it, and gave a small sigh of satisfaction. After a while, she put down the mandolin and walked over to the fire and helped herself to a marshmallow. She squatted next to Clay, and they held their sticks over the same patch of softly glowing coals. Everyone was curious about her mandolin, and again, she told the garage sale story.

She and Clay returned to the blanket and sat down. She took off her sandals and stretched out her legs.

"I like your playing, Joanna. It adds to tonight--the moon, the mandolin, the marshmallows."

Joanna laughed and picked up her mandolin. "Here's a song for you, Clay." She played the short traditional Irish song she'd learned just two days before, while sequestered in her apartment thinking about Clay. It was a fast and infectious tune, a lilting folk melody that begged Joanna to play faster than she was able.

"Sounds familiar--I like it, but I don't know it," said Clay. "Why is it for me?"

"Because it's called 'Red-haired Boy,'" replied Joanna. I just learned it this weekend. And I thought of you."

"Thanks, Joanna." He paused. "I was thinking about you too."

They looked at each other and smiled. Joanna wondered what it would feel like right this minute to have Clay's arms around her, to feel his breath on her face, the warmth of his body spreading to hers, even the rasp of his unshaven face on her cheek. She began playing another song.

Clay lay on his back and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool evening air, the crackling of the fire, the bright sound of the mandolin, and the knowledge that Joanna was within arm's reach. He wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but of course her hands were busy. He extended his arm blindly, and found her foot. It was small and warm. Clay stroked it absentmindedly, content to touch any part of Joanna, this magical girl who liked to play mandolin and swim in the river.

"Clay," whispered Joanna. "My feet are filthy."

Clay didn't say anything but just smiled, with eyes still closed, and moved his hand from her foot to her leg. He enclosed her ankle with his hand, completely encircling it with thumb and forefinger, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She was so small. Moving his hand slowly up her leg, he cupped her calf in his palm. And then shifted his hand to the top of her leg and stroked her shin, then her kneecap, and then around to the back of her knee. Joanna closed her eyes and struggled to keep playing her mandolin. By the time Clay's hand moved to her thigh, it was all she could do to just strum the same chord over and over. And when at last he moved his hand to the inside of her thigh, she stopped, absolutely unable to play another note, her left hand unable to muster the strength to hold the strings to the fingerboard, and her right hand robbed of its knowledge of how to strum.

At the sudden silence, Clay opened his eyes and removed his hand. Joanna looked up. "What song was that?" Clay asked, innocently.

"Very funny," said Joanna. "That was a song called "I can't play when you do that.'"

"I'm just getting back at you," said Clay.

"For what?"

"The other night. Out by the river. I was singing you that song and finding it impossible to get through."

"You were? I didn't notice. You sang great." Joanna remembered his song and blushed. His voice had been so powerful and pure, that she'd been overwhelmed as he held her in his arms, and she had fainted.

"You didn't notice? I guess you were too busy being unconscious."

They laughed. A long time.

"OK, y'all, what's the joke? Sounds like a good one," called Sam. He and Sheila were the only ones left at the fire. The others had gone to bed. When neither Clay nor Joanna answered, he asked, "Are you done playing, Joanna? That was really nice."

"Thanks. Yes, I'm done for the evening. My hand is tired," she replied.

Clay looked at his own hand, as if to say, 'my hand's not tired doing what it was doing.' Joanna caught this silent Clay-to-hand dialogue and collapsed in laughter again. Sam looked at the inexplicably laughing Joanna and then back to Clay. "What you been feedin' that girl, Gonzo?" he asked, using Clay's camp nickname. Clay shrugged.

Joanna walked toward the girls' tent and was met by Sheila.

"Possible change in sleeping plans," Sheila said. "It's K.C. and Carrie. And their on again off again romance. Well, it's on again and they'd like to sleep in our tent." She rolled her eyes. "But if you and I don't want to move, they said they'll survive."

"Where would we move to?"

"Well, there's space for two with Clay and space for one with Dave and Sam. I would vote for us both going with Clay. I'd rather be with him and you than on my own with Dave and Sam."

"I guess it's OK," said Joanna. "Why not?"

Clay lay on top of his sleeping bag, wearing only an old pair of running shorts. He had the lantern on and a book in hand, but he wasn't reading. He was thinking about that night's fireside gathering, about lying next to Joanna and sliding his hand all the way up to the inside of her thigh. He remembered the way she had laughed in the firelight's glow. But most of all, he remembered how she had looked playing her mandolin, bent over, focusing on her chords and picking.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sheila's voice.

"Knock, knock. Clay, are you still awake?"

He sat up. "Yes, what's up?"

"Can we come in?" Sheila asked, unzipping the tent as she spoke. Clay grabbed his long-sleeved flannel shirt and pulled it on."

"C'mon in," he said. Sheila, followed by Joanna, came into the tent. They sat down, and Joanna pulled the zipper closed.

"You seen K.C?" asked Clay.

"Funny you should ask," said Sheila. "That's why we're here." She explained the situation."You girls are welcome to sleep here. But are you sure you don't want me to go on up to your tent and bust K.C.'s .... " He paused. "Well, anyway, I'm happy to go up there and drag that boy back down here so you can sleep in your tent. Just say the word."

"No. No need to do that. We can just stay here--if it's OK with you?" said Sheila.

"Joanna?" asked Clay. She nodded. The girls brought their sleeping bags and packs inside. It was going to be a cozy night. They rolled out their bags. Clay and Joanna were on the ends, with Sheila in the middle. Probably just as well, thought Clay. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep at all if Joanna were lying right next to him.

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this story was written in May 2003; copyright Elena Felsig

this page was last updated 5/16/03