Audacity Jones to the Rescue

by Kirby Larson

  Cypher grunted.

  “I commend you for keeping your mind sharp,” said the Commodore. “Many a young lass would let hers go as limp as a licorice string on such a journey. But not our Annie.”

  “I am making an effort to keep my mind sharp,” Audie admitted. She was pleased with this turn of the conversation. Perhaps it might unlock the secret that the Commodore had held so tightly ever since their departure from Miss Maisie’s. “If only I knew what it was I am to be doing when we arrive … wherever we arrive … I could be of more assistance.”

  “All in good time, Annie, dear. All in good time.” The Commodore tilted his hat over his eyes and assumed his favorite travel activity: sleep.

  Well, “all in good time” seemed a step up from his usual, “You do not need to worry your sweet head,” or the phrase she’d encountered more often recently, “Children should be seen and not heard.” Audie did her best to temper her impatience. As was pointed out in Professor Helen Moon Ketteman’s tome The People’s Proverbs, “Too many kings can ruin an army.” She knew that she must be content with the knowledge that the Commodore was the general and she a mere foot soldier in this undertaking. Whatever it was. But her middle name was Evangeline, not Patience, after all. The Commodore had shown her so many kindnesses on their journey—buying that bag of peppermints in Zanesville, allowing her to order a cherry phosphate with lunch at the diner, and promising her a new wardrobe when they arrived at their destination. If only he knew that the greatest kindness for such a curious girl would be to reveal all about her mission. Alas, it was not to be.

  After five days on the road, Cypher nosed the automobile to a stop in front of a shabby hotel on the outskirts of the nation’s capital. When Audie, hand on the doorknob to her small hotel room (a placard above her head vowed that George Washington had sojourned there), asked, “Is this our final destination?” the Commodore actually gave a direct answer: “Tomorrow we’ll drive into the city. And then our work begins.” Audie opened her mouth to inquire further, but he held up his large, be-ringed hand. “Seen, not heard, Annie dear,” he reminded her, before closeting himself in his own room. Audie surmised that she could certainly wait a few hours longer for the answer to the question that had plagued her for nearly a week.

  She had retired with her books the night before, as had been her habit the entire journey. But, after breakfast, Audie found a newspaper, discarded by another lodger. She picked it up and, hungry for something new, began to read.

  “What are you doing?” Cypher snatched the paper from Audie’s hands. “Who gave you permission?”

  “No one said I couldn’t,” she answered reasonably.

  “You are to assume everything is against orders.” He methodically refolded the paper, front page tucked inside.

  Audie contemplated working up a tear or two, but such an effort would be wasted on Cypher.

  “What’s the fuss in here?” The Commodore strode into the room, brushing a bit of tobacco from his otherwise impossibly impeccable white trousers. Audie conjured up a watery glitter in her eyes. On him, tears might be effective.

  “I only wanted to read the newspaper,” she answered, adding a well-placed woebegone hiccup.

  “All this racket over reading material?” The Commodore fluffed the outer corners of his moustache. “My dear sir, might I remind you that Miss Smith is my esteemed colleague?”

  “Jones,” Audie muttered.

  Cypher answered the Commodore with a look that Audie could not read. Had Cypher been one to gamble, he might have become a wealthy man playing poker. His face gave little away.

  “Here you are, my dear.” The Commodore removed the newspaper from Cypher’s hands with only the briefest of tussles.

  “I admire you for wanting to expand your horizons. Well done. Well done.” He handed the neat packet of newsprint to Audie, then turned back to Cypher. “Will you join me in the other room? I would like to go over the plans for tomorrow.”

  Audie’s left ear buzzed as she unfolded the paper. What was it that Cypher had not wanted her to read? She made herself as comfortable as possible on the scratchy horsehair davenport. If she braced one foot against the armrest, she could stay put for several minutes, before sliding to the edge of the seat. She smoothed out the paper, and then studied each page, reading, bracing, sliding. Reading, bracing, sliding.

  From the front page of the Washington Post, Mr. Henry Ford proclaimed that the automobile would be part of every home, taking its place next to old Dobbin in the family barn. Audie tried to imagine such a thing: wondrous and horrifying at the same time. Wouldn’t she love to captain her own automobile? Wouldn’t anyone? His fortune had been made dressing up horses and their riders, yet even the Commodore had succumbed to modern pressures to own four-wheeled rather than four-legged transportation. But if everyone drove one, mightn’t cities choke on the clouds of gasoline exhaust? At least, old Dobbin’s “output” could be put to use, once aged, to help grow vegetables in the garden. The same could not be said of the auto.

  Audie read on. Sweet potato profits were up and England was abuzz with war talk, according to other headlines. She flipped pages, pausing briefly when she read, Whirl of Gayety in Washington Society. A lengthy sidebar spelled out the rules for the President’s upcoming New Year’s Day reception: Persons attending must approach the White House by the west gate, where a line is formed. Upon entering the White House, said line continues in single file through the vestibule, the corridor, and the Red Room to the Blue Room. And so on and so on. What a lot of blather.

  Audie kept reading. Nothing in the remaining pages seemed worthy of Cypher’s efforts to keep her from the newspaper. Nor did what she read provide any hint about why the Commodore needed her.

  She crumpled the newspaper in her lap. Her current situation was a complete disappointment. Certainly, she’d escaped the drudgery of Miss Maisie’s, but to what gain? Six days of bumpy roads and early morning departures from an assortment of second-rate hotels did not, in Audie’s mind, qualify as a bona fide adventure. And she had yet to perform the smallest of acts that made a whit of difference in the world.

  A wave of disappointment swept over her, causing her to curl up into a ball on the davenport, whose slickery surface unceremoniously dumped her into a rumpled heap on the floor. It was the last thing she’d ever imagined happening, but she found herself longing for Miss Maisie’s. Her narrow little cot next to Bimmy, the bedtime stories spun to trundle the triplets off to slumber land, the raisins in the oatmeal. And, not the least, the Punishment Room. Audie ached for Miniver, as well, stalwart cat, who, had she been in the vicinity, would have taken the opportunity to replace the newspaper in Audie’s lap.

  Audie curled up tighter. She longed for Min so powerfully that she could almost smell her—all dried hay and mouse breath. A deep yearning coursed through Audie’s body, eroding every ounce of desire for adventure or good-deed doing. Our distraught heroine had worked herself into such a state, she was certain she could hear Min’s distinctive mer-row.

  Audie pushed herself up with a start.

  That was no wishful thinking. That was Min!

  Audie rose from the floor and ran to the window, nudging it ajar a wee bit, admitting entrance to a blast of December’s biting breath.

  And to a slip of a cat.

  “Min!” Audie cried out in her excitement. Then she quieted her voice so as not to alert the men in the other room. “You followed me all this way?” Audie scooped up her feline friend and held her close. “Oh, brave and wonderful cat.”

  Min wasn’t much for fuss. She wriggled out of Audie’s grasp and dropped to the floor, nearly soundlessly, then delicately sniffed at the air.

  “What am I thinking?” Audie hurried to the breakfast table. “You must be famished.” With a bit of egg and bacon and toast from the sideboard, Audie was able to assemble a respectable meal.

  “Bees and bonnets,” Audie exclaimed as Min tidied herself after dining. “How am I going to keep you o
ut of sight?”

  Min stopped in mid-lick of her snowy right paw. Her ears folded back in surprise at Audie’s foolish question.

  “Oh, what am I saying?” Audie rescued another bacon crumb from the breakfast plates and offered the tidbit. “It’ll be like at Miss Maisie’s, won’t it?” Min removed the bacon from Audie’s finger with a tongue as rough as the Commodore’s whiskers. Audie sat on the floor, making a nest in her skirt, and there Min perched, purring and warm, while Audie coddled her. “Your timing was perfect,” Audie said, nearly confessing to the bout of loneliness that had overtaken her. “A friend makes life so much easier to bear.”

  A kerfluffle in the next room sent Min darting off Audie’s lap. She leapt up onto the davenport, skittering the newspaper to the floor, then bounded across an ornate side table and out the window. Audie gathered the scattered pages together, returning them to a neat though disordered pile.

  “My dear,” the Commodore called. “Will you step in here, please?”

  Audie stood, moving to place the scrambled newspaper, society pages on top, on the side table. “Coming,” she called.

  Her eye was caught by a photo she had earlier overlooked. “Dorothy Taft, smiling at her uncle the President.” Audie paused after reading the caption. Wouldn’t that be a lark, to call the President “uncle”? She tugged on her left earlobe. Glanced again at the photo. Could this Dorothy have something to do with the Commodore’s mission? Was that the reason for the buzzing starting anew in her ear?

  “Annie!” The Commodore’s voice was genial but firm.

  Audie glanced at the photo once more, trying to keep her lively imagination reined in. Before she could set the paper down, Cypher marched into the room, and grabbed her arm. For a slim man, he had plump thumbs. “You should come when you’re summoned.”

  Having read through Mrs. Paul’s manual sufficient times, Audie’s good manners prevented her from pointing out that she was a girl, not a dog. She shook herself from his grasp. “I was merely tidying up.” She carefully set the newspaper down, Dorothy’s photo on top. As she smoothed the page, she watched Cypher’s face for any reaction.

  His eyes may have narrowed. Nothing more. “Satisfied?”

  “Yes.” Audie stood tall, shoulders back. “Quite.”

  “Don’t be impertinent.” Miss Maisie rubbed the bridge of her nose, and blinked twice before looking again at Bimmy. The School had been running so much less efficiently since Audacity’s departure. Three of the Girls had actually asked for Miss Maisie’s help with homework. Cook had left Miss Maisie’s Cherry Cordials off the shopping order. Twice. And those triplets had been sniffling so, it was impossible to keep the requisite number of handkerchiefs laundered and pressed. Miss Maisie was going to have to double up on her standing order of headache powders until Audie’s return. “What do you mean there is no mail? I saw the postman stop, with my own eyes.” She patted her plump palm on the top of the writing desk at which she sat each morning composing notes to the fine ladies of Swayzee, inviting herself to lunch or tea. For some odd reason, she never received replies to any of her missives.

  Bimmy’s bony shoulders reached upward toward her ears. “I could check again,” she offered.

  Miss Maisie’s eyes squinched. “You’re sure there was nothing for me?” Mrs. Snidewater had almost smiled at her after services three weeks ago Sunday. Miss Maisie had been expecting an invitation to call on the Snidewaters ever since.

  Bimmy’s black curls bounced as she nodded vigorously. “Very sure.”

  The grandfather clock in the entry chimed. “So late already?” Miss Maisie flapped her hand. “Go do something useful. I know! Tell Cook to prepare chocolate pudding for tonight’s dessert.” She shuddered. “What was she thinking yesterday, serving fresh fruit?”

  “Yes, Miss Maisie.” Bimmy curtsied and then scurried out of the parlor. The triplets were playing hopscotch on the parquet floor in the old ballroom, to divert themselves while they awaited their turn on the bicycle Miss Maisie had given the girls for Christmas. A single bicycle for seventeen girls meant a lot of waiting one’s turn.

  Bimmy signaled to her chums and they hopscotched after her, not directly, of course, but following after a discreet pause. Soon all four of them were crammed into their secret hiding place under the rear stairs.

  “You have news!” exclaimed Violet. Her sisters pressed their hands over her mouth.

  “Shh,” said Lavender.

  “We don’t want Divinity to hear,” said Lilac.

  Bimmy nodded. “Mum’s the word, right?”

  Three hands crossed three hearts.

  Bimmy reached into her pinafore pocket, a proud smile lighting her dear face. She fanned out a handful of cards bearing postmarks from Columbus, Zanesville, Uniontown, and Frostburg. “We got another.” She added the latest postcard to the fan.

  “Washington, D.C.,” Lilac exclaimed in a low voice.

  The girls admired the photograph on the front. “The Ardmore Hotel,” Lavender read. “Can you imagine traveling to such a posh place as that?”

  The little hidey-hole turned midnight-quiet as four girls stepped outside their circumstances to envision such a possibility. The triplets conjured up images of themselves perched on velveteen-upholstered train seats, noses pressed to the glass as they watched the countryside whiz by, secure in the knowledge that their many trunks—brimming with organza gowns and kid-leather boots and three linen waists apiece—were safely stored in the baggage car.

  Bimmy’s dream placed her in the locomotive, one leather-gloved hand on the gear handles and one on the whistle. Her arm joggled as if yanking down on the chain to signal far ahead that the train was approaching.

  Lilac’s imagination was not as vibrant as the others’ and her thoughts were quickly back to the situation at hand. “Does this one say anything … else?” she whispered.

  “Like the others?” Lavender added. In addition to Audie’s newsy notes, at the bottom of each prior postcard had been a word or two—SLEPT LIKE A BABY, EATING WELL, IN GOOD SPIRITS—written in a hand strange to all.

  “That’s what’s so odd.” Bimmy slowly turned over the latest card, showing the others. “This one’s not from Audie a’tall.” On the back, in that unfamiliar block print, were written four words.

  WISH YOU WERE HERE. Lavender’s lips moved as she read them to herself. She smiled. “Of course, she misses us.”

  “Still, it’s an odd thing to write,” said Lilac. “How could we be there? We’re here. At Miss Maisie’s.”

  “But the point is that she didn’t write it, did she?” That realization dawned on Violet’s heart-shaped face.

  “Is she in trouble, Bimmy?” asked Lilac, a tear of worry coursing down her cheek.

  Bimmy’s eyes were drawn to the postcard, as if staring at it hard enough would unwrap the cryptic message penciled there. “I don’t know. I do not know.” She turned the postcard image side up. “But I feel strongly that we must be on full alert for our dear Audie.”

  Audie winced as the seamstress poked her a third time with a straight pin.

  “Did I nick you, darlin’?” The woman stopped.

  “It’s nothing, I’m certain.” The Commodore shifted in the wicker chair provided for him, drumming his fingers on the arms. “Your concern is most appreciated.” He cleared his throat, pulling a watch from his pocket and opening the face. “But we are in a bit of a rush.”

  The seamstress blushed. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sir.” Her fingers became birds, flying over the seams of the navy-blue frock. “There we are.” She picked a bit of thread from Audie’s shoulder. “You and your daughter can go out for a spot of tea, and by the time you come back, the alterations will be finished.”

  Audie stole another glance at herself in the mirror. Except for the sash at the hips, this dress was cleanly cut—no ruffles, thank goodness—with a pleated skirt for freedom. It suited Audie fine. The Commodore had decked her out in a completely new wardrobe: two matching dresses, a wool co
at with braided trim, leather gloves, a sturdy hat of brown beaver, and a muff. Nothing fancy but everything durable and classic.

  “This will be perfect for—” Audie looked at the Commodore. “For?” She had no idea how this new ensemble played into her mission.

  The Commodore grunted his way out of the delicate chair. “We’ll be back in an hour.” He waved Audie off to change back into her Wayward Girl garb. “I’m going to see a man about a horse, my dear.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket.

  Audie had learned that meant he’d be waiting outside, where he could puff away in peace. “I won’t be a minute.” She took one last turn in front of the mirror, taking in a girl who no longer looked wayward nor orphaned. The girl attired in navy wool would pass for someone who was going places. Doing things. Of that, there was no doubt. Audie saluted her image and hurried off to change.

  Juice Johnson was the best Herald newsboy around. His “read all about its” from the corner of F and Twelfth Streets could grab the ears of gentlemen smack-dab in the middle of the Capitol grounds, blocks and blocks away. At twelve, Juice prided himself on three things: a powerful voice, a curious mind, and spit-shined shoes. Pa—God rest his soul—had taught Juice the secrets of a good shine. “Best foot forward, son. Best foot forward,” had been the last words Pa uttered before meeting up with Ma in that heavenly choir. Now Juice lived with his grandfather, W. W. Brown, known to Juice as Daddy Dub.

  Not every newsboy could claim a tie to the White House. In fact, not one other newsboy could do so. Daddy Dub had been driving presidents since Grant, though he was a bit testy about the sitting president, who preferred engines to horses. “If the good Lord had meant us to ride in such infernal machines, why did He create the equine?” Daddy Dub wondered aloud about a dozen times a day.

  Juice would never confess it to his grandfather, but, like President Taft, he himself was smitten with those “infernal machines.” Was even saving the odd nickel and dime himself for such a contraption. And when he had one, he would steer it west, as far as that automobile could carry him. Seemed to Juice that the future was not in the nation’s capital, but in the nation’s fringes. Where the color of a man’s skin didn’t count for as much as the quality of his actions. West. Seattle was a place that had planted its tendrils in his heart of late. Lots of rain, he heard tell, but couldn’t that be handled with a sturdy umbrella? Washington State was a place of tall mountains, deep lakes, and big challenges, and such a landscape called to Juice.