Staring at the ash, I listen. In my mind’s eye, the word cacophony jumps out at me, right off the remembered page of some vocabulary workbook. But that word isn’t adequate for what I hear. What I hear is more of an amalgamation, a stew of varied voices.

The counselor leads with a strong, clear voice. “Be-cause God ma-ade the i-vy twine.” Among the other singers, campers and counselors, I hear scattered sweet harmonies. There is one good bass and a reasonable complement of sopranos, altos, and tenors. Somewhere in the mix, a marvelous Broadway baritone and a Motown falsetto. These voices will give us some competition on Talent Night, whatever we do. But mingled with the glee-club sounds are the hollow voices of MRs and maybe a deaf person. Slightly nasal tones and soft consonants—the mildest CP accent—unite with the many varieties of spastic singing. Some lack tune and rhythm; others follow a tune and rhythm of their own. There’s a genuine bluegrass mountain twang. I hear the same voices that joined in cheering Robert this morning, but now their joining is patterned and structured. If it isn’t always music, it is song, or at least the common pursuit of song. For all its oddness, it is singing.

I’m glad no one from Crosstown High is here. They wouldn’t know what to make of these strange sounds. But since no one else is here, I’m free to listen and to sing along.

“Because God made you, that’s why I-I-I-I love you.”

The singing ends. I look for that coil of white ash, but I can no longer make it out. It has lost its separate shape and merged with the sand.

Day Six

Day Six

To identify an object, it is necessary to refer to the group of which the object is a member or the whole of which it is a part. It is also necessary to specify the characteristics, qualities, or actions that distinguish the object from similar things.

“I won’t be riding in a canoe,” Sara says politely as soon as they park us on the dock.

The guy in charge shrugs. “Hey, no problem.” It’s that good-looking surfer type who really knows how to shag. I smile at him and watch his long brown legs carry him into the canoe. He is dazzling in the bright light of midmorning.

“Robert’s rebellion has hegemony walking on eggs,” Sara whispers.

“I can take two at a time on the canoe,” the surfer guy says. “While y’all wait, Bobby can show you how to fish.”

I already know how to fish. Dad likes to say it’s an essential part of a girl’s education. Bobby, a brawny boy in a baseball cap, gives us bamboo fishing poles baited with plastic worms. “Now, you have to keep real quiet, or you’ll scare the fish away!” He speaks to us like we’re children.