Fiction:

The Last Camp

By Jack Weyland

“Am I dying?” his father asked. Tracy suddenly found it difficult to speak.

When the doctor released Tracy’s father from the hospital, it was to send him home to die. The cancer had been discovered too late and was too widespread for there to be much that could be done.

It wasn’t entirely for his father’s benefit that he wasn’t told he was dying; his mother needed some time to deal with the situation before she talked to her husband about it.

Tracy, then eighteen years old, numbly endured the last few weeks of high school, then it was summer. He worked on a highway department survey crew, which left him his weekends free to wait.

His three older brothers and their wives each took turns flying into town on weekends, spending a day or two with their father before returning to their jobs in faraway places.

One day his father called him into his room. It was dimly lit and smelled of pain; the bedside table was littered with glasses and bottles of pills.

“Have I ever lied to you?” his father asked.

“No.”

“Then don’t lie to me. Am I dying?”

Tracy suddenly found it difficult to speak. He tried to remember hopeful words about “being up in no time” that his brothers and their wives had used so easily. But it was no use.

“Am I dying of cancer?” his father again asked.

“Yes,” Tracy answered.

His father sighed and said quietly, “That’s what I thought.”

Over the next few weeks, his father made all the necessary preparations—calling in a lawyer to complete the will and other financial matters, and picking out a reasonably priced casket and a cemetery lot for his burial.

Then he lay back and patiently waited to die. But death, like sleep, does not always come when invited.

He even seemed to improve a little.

One warm summer day in July he looked out his bedroom window and said, “I want to go fishing.”

Of course, it was impossible. That was what his mother said; that is what the older brothers and their wives said; that is what the neighbors said.

The doctor said, “If he feels up to it and somebody can go along to do most of the work, why not let him go?”

Tracy was put in charge of taking his father for one last trip into the mountains. After a busy few days of planning and buying groceries and stocking up on pills and reading his mother’s never-ending list of how to care for his father, finally one Saturday morning, Tracy stepped inside the small camping trailer to make his last inspection before getting his father.

For all the years I was growing up, he thought as he looked at the worn path in the cracking linoleum floor of the camper, this has been dad’s church.

For as long as he could remember, his father had not been active in the Church. Long ago someone in the Church had offended him—about what and by whom no one could now remember. But it had been enough to keep him out of church, except to watch his sons perform, for twenty years.

For all the years that Tracy had been alive, his father treated Sunday as his day. “I work hard at the store six days a week. At least one day I ought to be able to do what I want to do.” And that meant fishing in the spring and summer, hunting in the fall, and doing some home carpentry in the winter.

Tracy drove the camper up the canyon, and his father sat in the front seat and silently watched the twisting mountain stream beside the road.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here,” his father said. “I know this country as well as anyone. Every road, every hill, each turn in the river—I know it all. See that place where the river goes under the railroad bridge? Right down there on that point is a good place to fish. If you use the right fishing equipment, I’ll guarantee you could catch two or three nice brown trout.”

“You make it sound easy, dad, but it never is when I try it.”

“Well, I’ve spent the last twenty years fishing this river. I should’ve learned something. You know, I should write down all the good places for you. Somebody ought to benefit from all I’ve learned about this river.”

They drove in silence for several kilometers as his dad studied the river and the condition of every fishing area.

Tracy wondered if his father knew that he didn’t care at all about fishing.

“We should’ve come out here more often, just father and son.”

“Mom never would’ve let me come on Sundays.”

“No, she was strongly opposed to your doing that.”

“But we could’ve come on Saturdays, dad.”

“Sure, we could’ve done that,” his father said wistfully, “if I’d ever had an assistant manager I could trust to leave the store with. You know Saturday was our busiest day.”

“I know; that’s what you always used to say.”

We’re strangers, Tracy thought as he drove. I really don’t know much about him. And what does he really know about me?

Soon they arrived at the lake. They discovered that the campsite, which for years had been his father’s favorite, was still vacant. It was the last one along the road to the lake and was located on a hill, giving a good view of the lake and mountains.

After lunch his father took his pills and lay down for a nap.

About mid-afternoon he woke up. “I feel terrific!” he announced happily. “This mountain air has done more for me than all the doctors in the world. Let’s go fishing!”

First Tracy carried down two folding chairs, next the fishing equipment, and after that a sunshade that his mother had made him promise he’d set up for his dad to use. After everything was ready, he escorted his father down the trail to the lake.

Not much happened for a couple of hours, but suddenly, his father shouted and his fishing rod bent over sharply. At the same time thirty meters out into the lake, a large trout jumped out of the water, shaking its head back and forth in an attempt to get rid of the hook.

“He must be about nine kilos!” his father yelled excitedly.

It was a long battle between man and fish. When the fish relaxed, the slow, steady reeling in of the fishing line brought it closer to shore. A couple of times it was within six meters of them before it surged its way back into deeper waters.

“Dad, I can see it now. It’s huge.”

Finally the fight was over.

“Get the net, Tracy. Careful now.”

Tracy stood near the water and waited for the fish to get close enough, then dipped the long-handled net into the water and pulled the exhausted fish into the air, causing it to frantically writhe.

“It’s beautiful,” his father said reverently.

Tracy picked up the large knife and prepared to strike the fish sharply on the head with the handle to put it out of its suffering. That was something his father had taught him.

“Don’t kill him!” his father cried out. “I don’t want to keep him.”

“No?”

“I want him to stay alive. He belongs in these waters. He fought too bravely to die. Can you remove the hook very easily?”

Tracy grabbed the fish by the gills and looked to see where the hook had lodged. It was deep in its throat.

“He swallowed the hook, dad. I can’t get the hook out without killing him.”

“Then cut the line and put him back in the water. Quickly now.”

He took his knife and cut the line a few centimeters from the fish’s mouth, then gently lowered it into the water. For a second or two, it just lay still; then sensing freedom, it quickly swam away from them into the deep.

Tracy looked back at his father, wondering why he let loose the largest fish they’d ever seen in the lake.

“He’s free now, isn’t he? Free to move through these waters. He can go places we’ll never see. I’m glad we didn’t keep it, aren’t you?”

Since anything else after that fish would be anticlimactic, they quit and packed everything back to the trailer.

“How’d you like to go to California with me for a few weeks this summer?” his dad asked, the excitement of catching the fish still bubbling over. “There’s a hospital there where they treat people with diseases like mine. We could drive down there. They claim they can cure people even worse off than me.”

His father was as positive as Tracy had seen him for years.

“We can fight back at disease, can’t we? We don’t have to just sit and accept defeat, do we? We’ll leave in a week or two, just you and me. And when I’m all cured, we’ll have mom fly down and meet us. We’ll take a little vacation and show her all of California, just the three of us. Maybe we’ll even go down to Mexico and Central America and take a boat through the Panama Canal. How does that sound?”

Even as Tracy cooked supper, his father talked about visiting Mexico. He cooked hamburgers and opened a can of beans. His father took the pills and then they had their meal.

Thick clouds had moved in during the late afternoon, and by evening they were in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. Looking out, Tracy watched the wind drive sheets of rain across the lake in sporadic patterns. Several times lightning crashed around them.

His father, suddenly looking much older, his forehead drenched with sweat, went to bed after taking his pills. Tracy stayed up reading a book.

At eleven o’clock his father woke up coughing and retching, and vomited the food he had eaten for supper.

Tracy got out of bed and turned on his flashlight. His father was sitting up, his body hunchbacked with pain.

Tracy got a pan of water and a towel and began to clean up the mess on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his father repeated over and over again. “It must’ve been the effect of the pills.”

Tracy finished with the floor and then took a wash cloth and cleaned up his father as best as he could. They got him out of his sweat-soaked pajamas and into a pair of old pants and a shirt.

At first his father was afraid of taking any more pain pills that night. As the night progressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth, his head down, his teeth clenched, fighting against the pain.

Finally, at one o’clock, unable to stand the pain any longer, willing to risk vomiting again, his father asked for a slice of bread and his pills.

“Does the fish hurt tonight?” his father asked after taking his last pill.

“I don’t know, dad. It’s only a fish.”

“It’s out there swimming around with the hook digging in with each breath.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“Do you think it’s grateful to me for sparing its life, or is it cursing me for allowing it to continue to suffer?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Every time it tries to eat, every time it swallows, the hook will be there, tearing at it. Maybe it’d be better off dead. Maybe we should’ve let it die.”

“Dad, please, you’ve got to sleep.”

“Maybe it’s already dead; maybe it’s floating belly up in the water.”

His father stood up and walked to the window to look out at the lake. The rain had turned to a steady drizzle.

“It’s so hard to know what we should’ve done—so hard to play God even for a fish.”

Tracy lay back in bed, hoping his father would soon go back to his bed and rest, but he remained standing there by the window looking out into the blackness of the night.

Tracy must have fallen asleep, but a few minutes later, he heard the door shut and his father walk out into the darkness.

He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and ran out.

A few minutes later, he found his father standing at the edge of the lake, flashlight in hand, shining the light across the surface of the water.

“Dad, what are you doing down here?”

“I want to know if the fish is dead.”

Suddenly Tracy was terrified. He knew he couldn’t forcibly move his dad up to the trailer. He was too big.

“Dad, please go back inside. It’s raining.”

“I know it’s raining,” his father said, shining his light back and forth across the water.

“You know mom would be mad if she knew you were out here in the rain. Please go back.”

Finally satisfied, his father turned around to face Tracy. “He’s not belly up. He must still be alive. We can go back now.”

Tracy put his arm around his father’s waist and helped him up the trail.

“Do you ever pray about me?” his father asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“What do you pray about?”

“That you’ll get better.”

“Don’t pray for that anymore. Pray that God’s will be done. We’ve got to trust him to know what’d be best. You and I can’t even decide that for a fish.”

Back in the trailer, his father slept the remainder of the night.

When Tracy woke up the next morning he discovered a gray, dull, rainy day. His father woke up at ten o’clock. Tracy fixed them both some hot cereal and his father a cup of instant coffee.

“This is Sunday, isn’t it?” his father asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s the first Sunday I ever recall you missing church. I shouldn’t have come up here with you. Especially with this weather. We’re not going to get much fishing today, are we? Of course, fishing is sometimes very good when it rains—if you want to.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“I’ve been thinking about what I said yesterday—about going to California. It would use up all our savings if we went. One thing’s for sure, the insurance money would never pay for it. And if the treatment is no good, then where would your mother be without any money?”

Tracy ached inside as he realized that California was his father’s last hope for recovery, and that hope had slipped away.

“I guess I’ll never see the Panama Canal, will I?” his father said, looking up from his cup. “Well, we’ll just have to make the best of what we’ve got here while we can.”

Tracy, still drying the pan he’d cooked the cereal in, looked away as the tears fell.

“I’ve got some money set aside for your mission and part of your schooling, but if there’s anything else you need from me, let’s talk about it now, before we head back home.”

Tracy knew what he wanted but didn’t know if he dared to ask his father. He knew it wasn’t what his father expected him to say.

“Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”

His father sadly shook his head. “You know I can’t give you that. I’m not an elder. Why do you want that?”

“All my life I’ve been ordained and given priesthood blessings by other men, sometimes by men I don’t even know. But what I wanted was for you to do that, my own father.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”

“I used to think that I if tried hard to be the best kind of boy that you’d see what the Church was like and become active again. Dad, I never did any of the things that other guys in school were doing. Why didn’t that make you love the Church?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t even notice, did you? You took it all for granted. And now it’s too late. Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”

“I can’t do it. If you want a priesthood blessing, you’ll have to see the bishop or the home teachers.”

“They’re not my father. You are.”

“I can’t do it. I don’t hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.”

“Dad, you can give me a father’s blessing even if you don’t hold the priesthood. But if that makes you uncomfortable, just put your hands on my head and say a prayer,” Tracy pleaded.

“No, I can’t. Please don’t ask me. I don’t know how. God wouldn’t hear anything I say anyway.”

“I’d hear it. Doesn’t that matter to you? Please, this may be my only chance to receive a father’s blessing.”

His father sat on the kitchen chair and looked out the window for a long time.

“Please, dad.”

“What do I do?”

“Stay in the chair, and I’ll kneel down so you can put your hands on my head.”

Tracy kneeled down in front of his father.

“What do I say?”

“Just say a prayer.”

He felt the big hands of his father rest gently on his head.

“God,” he began slowly, “Tracy wanted me to do this. I don’t have the right priesthood, but he thought if I just said a prayer.” He paused for several seconds and then began again. “He’s been a good boy, always has been. Not that I can take any credit for that. I should’ve been a better example for him, but there was always enough food on the table, and I taught him about honesty and about work. When he’s given a job to do, he does it. There’s a lot of people, even Mormons, who can’t finish a job.”

Tracy knew there were tears streaming down his face, but he didn’t care about that.

“I wasn’t everything I should’ve been, I guess you know that, but I think he’s turned out okay—well, better than okay. I think he’s the most wonderful boy a father could have. God, you better take care of him. He’s going to need that, because I’m dying. You’d better help him, that’s all I can say.”

Suddenly all the heartache that had been locked inside Tracy was gone.

“Maybe he could remember,” his father continued with a strange calmness, “the good things I did as a father and not think of my failings. And maybe when he’s a father, he won’t be too busy to take his son out and play ball with him. I used to do that, you know. And maybe he won’t be too eager to look down on people in the Church who drink coffee or have a beer now and then. Instead, maybe he’ll try to help them, and not be like those who sniff their noses when somebody who smokes goes to church.”

His father paused and then began again. “I want him to go on a mission, but only if he works hard. And I’d like him to be married in the temple. I never was, but I think it’d be a nice way to start a marriage. You’d better bless him. He’s a good boy, and I love him.” There was a long pause. “I guess I’m through. Tracy, how do I end it?”

Tracy told him, and his father ended the prayer.

Tracy wiped the tears away on his sleeve and stood up.

“Was it okay?” his father asked.

Tracy silently nodded his head, unwilling to trust his voice to explain what it meant to him. Then he reached out and threw his arms around his father and hugged him.

“It wasn’t so bad. I just hope the blessing works,” his father said with a slight smile through the tears.

The rain continued through lunch.

After lunch, his father suggested that they go back home, because if they left then, they would be in time to go as a family to sacrament meeting.

They went to church for the next three Sundays, and then the pain became too much for his dad and he had to stay at home. They had the home teachers help Tracy with the sacrament each week for the family in their home until the end of August, when his father died.

Illustrated by Richard Hull