Dark clouds stormed across the lake that evening, as we sat in the camp mess hall staring at mashed potatoes and meatloaf. Our table, usually filled with noisy fourth and fifth graders wrapped in towels and damp bathing suits, was silent.
Inside the safety of the third floor of the Quaker Haven lodge, a few campers twisted on the varnished benches to look out the tall windows. Some nudged each other, excited by the distant rumbles and electricity that began to charge the air.
My ten-year-old church friend Jane and I could see black billows blanketing the sky. They blocked out the summer sun and made the noontime meal seem more like a late supper. Our forks were poised in the air as we sat waiting for something to happen, to break the spell.
Suddenly, a jagged bolt of lightning tore through the clouds and speared the lake with its pointed tip. An ear-shattering crash followed, jarring our teeth. Two girls near me instinctively covered their heads and cried out.
Those of us closest to the windows peered through the metal muntins, our eyes squinting to focus. Buckets of rain suddenly transformed the two walls of casement windows into a car wash. We heard the whoosh of the rain whipped by the wind against the glass.
A girl with a pixie haircut pointed, gasped, and covered her mouth. Aluminum trash cans from the beach had lost their lids and tumbled across the grassy lawn. Jane and I looked at each other in disbelief.
A second flash: the ancient sycamore at the bottom of the hill launched its weakest branches into the air. They wrestled for a moment and were thrown to the ground, as the thunder boomed its approval.
Inside, the room was noiseless. All of us, kids and adults, were feeble spectators as we watched the storm play out.
Another flash: aluminum canoes upended in the heavy gusts began dancing along the beachfront.
The boys broke the silence. “Cool!” they shouted almost in unison, as the girls cringed.
Metal canoes blown around like air mattresses? My child-brain tried to register what was happening.
Not wanting to miss anything, campers on the other side of the room began to scoot down the slick benches to get a good view. They whispered to each other, excited by the suddenness of the summer storm, as if it were a day at the movies or a sporting event.
I shivered when a flash of sparks radiated from a nearby light pole. The lights in the hall went dark.
Thunder crashed again, louder and closer than before. Somehow, we felt it slam into our chests. Before we could even gasp, a shriek filled the room. Then a wail pierced the air with a sound we’d never heard come from another child.
Some kids covered their ears; others began to cry.
Another flash. Thunder cracked again, reverberating in the darkened room. The high-pitched screech turned into hysterics, and they were contagious. Half the campers began sobbing. Older kids craned to see who had started the mayhem. Someone pointed to a small, dark-haired girl.
The word quickly spread across the tables.
“She’s from Vietnam.”
A young woman sprang into action, rushing toward her. She wrapped the girl in her arms, lifted her from her bench, and ushered her through the dining room’s double doors and down the staircase.
The wind died just as the girl was whisked away. We watched the thunder and rain move across the lake taking their power elsewhere. The sky above us lightened. The adults who had stood motionless shook their heads once, and again, as if to recover their senses, and told us to go back to our cabins. One counselor kept her eyes glued on the doorway.
As we waited to line up, Jane and I looked around the room confused. We whispered to each other. “Why was that girl so afraid? Why did they have to take her away?”
We never found out.
The rest of the week, I looked for the dark-haired little girl. At the craft hut, on the beach, and in the lake. Even at mealtimes. But I never saw her again. And no one spoke of her.
It was years before I understood.
