The Man with the Wooden Spectacles

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “Well, it’s des,” Aunt Linda said, “dat dey all wen’ to dem lectuahs wid Bella—an’ dey all come f’m de las’ one—dis wuz de vehy time, Elsa, dat yo’ uncle wuz stayin’ wid Bella fo’ a few nights—well, dey all come home f’m dat las’ lectuah awful convince’ dat suhtin’ niggahs kin do strange, strange t’ings! But Ah put de finishing touches on dey convincement!”

  “You did? How?”

  “Well, yo’ unc’, you know, wuz fixin’ to sell dat proputty he got out neah de Olive Hill Cem’tahy fo’ a big sum ob money. Evaht’ing wuz all set fo’ de money to be paid obah downtown—to his rep’sentive. As Ah huhd Manny puttin’ it—for Ah wuz wuhkin’ at Beluga’s dat day—‘de deal wuz in de bag.’ But as dey wuz bof countin’ ye’ uncle’s proficks on papah, yo’ unc’ an’ me we quahal ’bout a half-dollah Ah claim he owe me fo’ extra time Ah put in at his flat, washin’ de flohs so’s dey kin take de vehy vahnish whut raght den wuz keepin’ yo’ uncle out ob his flat. An’ so, sulkin’ lak, kaze he claim Ah owe him time, ’stead ob him owin’ me moneh, Ah put a li’l libbah stew on de fiah. An’ happen to buhn it a li’l. An’ he an’ Manny come in de kitchen, an’ he say—whut de hell dat stinkin’ food you cookin’, Linda? Food, Ah say—dat ain’ no food. Ah done put a conjuh on de fiah—to th’ow obbah yo’ fin’ deal on de cem’tahy proputty, cause yo’ won’ pay me mah half-dollah. An’ lo an’ behol’—Elsa—des as we talkin’, an’ my stew boil ovah an’ stink eben mo’ terr’ble, de phone rang—an’ he ansah it—and de Cem’tahy Comp’ny des dat vehy min’ lose dey title to de whol’ cem’tahy in som’ big coht case, and dey wuz bankrup’. Ah heah it all! An’ Manny, who’d stayed dah in de kitchen—an’ he huhd it all, too—he tuhned w’ite lak a ghos’, Elsa. Not f’m losin’ no money, no—kaze he wuzn’ in dat deal at all—but f’m seein’ voodoo did befo’ his vehy eyes. An’ des den yo’ uncle he come back, lookin’ awful funny, an’ scratchin’ he haid, and gi’ me my fitty cents. An’ say: ‘Heah’s yo’ money—an’ quit cookin’ dem goddam’ conjuhs.’ ”

  Elsa smiled faintly. “Well, Aunt, since it was only legitimate stew that upset the deal, I’m less convinced than ever—about conjures.”

  “Yas? Well, Manny an’ Bella an’ yo’ unc’ Silas dey ain’ less convince’, Ah tell you dat!”

  “Probably not. Well, Aunt, I came only for your good advice. For, conjures or no conjures, I’ve got to admit that you’ve ever had an uncanny ability to know exactly what course to take in any bewildering affair. If there’s anything in the world such as 4th-Dimensional vision—I believe you’ve got it.”

  “Fo’th demented division? Ah don’ know whut dat is, no. But good advice yo’ is come fo’—an’ good advice you is gonna git. Fac’ is, Elsa, you is gonna get eben mo’. But fus’—heah is de advice.” Aunt Linda paused impressively. “Now in de fus’ place, chil’, de cahds, dey is stacked agin you. Dat orn’ry Jedge he has p’inted you—see?—and if’n you’ don’ take dat case, you is disbahhed—den woops!—all is in de fiah. Yo’ mought des as well say: ‘If’n Ah don’ tek de case, den ’bout fi’—fifteen o’clock o’ so, Unc’ Silas is gonna be conveyin’ dat proputty away so fas’ it will tek mah breath away!’ So, Elsa, you is pos’tively gotta play fo’ time. In shoht—you is gotta tek de case! For ifn you tek it, dey cain’t be no disbahment. An’ so long as you don’ reach de decision in coht, yo’ ain’ los’ de case. An’ no disbahment—an’ no losin’ de case—den you isn’t yet quitclaimed. Da’s all elementarish, Elsa. An’ in de face ob it, you is got to repoht as lawyah—an’ see de man whut you is to defen’. Mebbe he got one o’ two things, Elsa, dat he ain’ told dem odders—but whut he will tell you, his lawyah. An’ mebbe you will see, honey, inside one minute, dat he ain’t a flea’s chancet ob bein’ convicted ob nothin’. Fo’ des supposin’, honey, dat no mattah how black things may look ag’in him, he claim dat Franklin de Roosevelt wuz wid him w’en de crime was commit’—an’ supposin’ yo’ called up Franklin de Roosevelt and ask’ him, an’ he say ‘huah Ah wuz wid nun—an’ Ah’s flyin’ now to Chycago to test’fy.’ Whut would you do den?”

  “Well,” laughed Elsa uneasily, “I’d go into court with the client’s case with no misgivings. That is—if his witnesses assured me they would be here in time—and I was sure, also, that the plane wasn’t coming down!”

  “All right den, Chile. Exackly dat is mah advice. Repoht as de man’s attouhney—so’s you kin see de man. Fo’ ob co’se his keepah won’ let you see him, da’s suhtain, till you signs some kin’ ob ’ceptance dat you ’grees yo’ is his attouhney. But see him! Fo’ dis man may be guilty—yes—but maybe, ag’in, he ain’. ‘Cause a man done foun’ undah bad cuhcumstances don’ mean nothin’. He ain’ tellin’ dem a fing whut he got in his mitt—but he’ll tell you, his lawyah. An’, Chile, if’n he give yo’ what’s-what to win dat case, yo’ kin easy put a stop to any fu’thah foolishments ob yo’ uncle.”

  “Further foolishments? What do you mean?”

  “ ’Bout disbahments! Fo’ you des get out ob town aftah dat—fo’ de balance ob yo’ fus’ th’ee months oh practice—so’s you cain’t possibly get ’p’inted no mo’ to no cases. An’ git disbahed in coht on dis, o’ dat, o’ oddah technicalicness. You kin go an’ stay wid mah aunt, yo’ Great-aunt—Great-aunt Lizy!—out in Gary if’n you ain’t no money. Now da’s de ’vice paht. Whut you t’ink ob it!”

  Elsa was ruminatively silent for a few seconds. Then she spoke. “Well, all I can say, Aunt Linda, is what I’ve already said: that you’ve never yet steered me up a wrong street with your advice. And your stating it all out in words makes it, furthermore, all very, very clear. Yes, it is my only play. But suppose—well, suppose this man is as guilty as all circumstances point him to be? Then, having registered as his attorney, if I didn’t show up at his trial, I’d—” Aunt Linda raised her skinny hand. “Lissen, honey, yo’ couldn’ not show up at his tri’l any mo’ dan you couldn’ not show up at whah he’s locked up. Yo’ is gonna hab to tek de case—an’ try de case—no mattah how t’ings is. Fo’ dis heah affaiah is a one-way st’eet fo’ you. Ahead on’y. Fo’ you is got no chances if you don’ tek de case—but seberal if you does! Fus’, dat de man plain’y ain’ guilty—and secon’, dat if he is, yo’ can still cleah him.”

  Elsa frowned. “Yes. That—that’s the undelectable part of this criminal law. That we—the defenders—have to give the defendants their full legal and moral chance.” She paused. “Of course, Aunt—in both of your two hypothetical cases—don’t forget there’s also the quite likely probability that I couldn’t clear him in a million years.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Aunt Linda, waving the very idea down with an emphatic downward flick of her hand.

  “A li’l gal whut win one ob dem keys fo’ bein’ smahtest gal in de class?—couldn’ outsmaht dem t’ick-headed polit’cal lawyahs whut get dey jobs th’u wiah-pullin’? Nonsense!” Again she waved the very idea away as though it were a troublesome gnat. “Ob co’se,” she qualified, “yo’ mus’n’, undah no cuhcumstances, go into co’t ’tiahed lak a mouse. Do’ yo’ is a cute mouse—at dat!”

  “Like a mouse, Aunt? What do you mean?”

  “Ah mean “ said Aunt Linda, mincing no words, “wea’in’ dat mousey li’l knit gray dress whut yo is got on now. Da’s a good dress fo’ fussin’ ’roun’ in yo’ office. But if’n yo’ has to go in coht, yo’ mus’ dress lak a millium dollahs. Yit vehy, vehy fem’nine. Fo’—”

  “Oh, come, come, Aunt Linda! This trial—in which I haven’t even yet signed up to participate!—is a bench trial. No jury.”

  “Da’s all right. Ah said whut Ah said.”

  “Well—am I supposed—supposed to vamp the judge, then?—or the State’s Attorney?—or the defendant?—or whom?”

  “How ol’ de jedge?” asked Aunt Linda, sagely.

  “Well—I understand he’s well up in his sixties.”

  �
�Ah see. Well, dey ain’ no use tryin’ to wamp a real ol’ man, no! De ones whut’s ‘roun’ fifty—dey werry pers’asive to fem’ninity; but de ones beyant dat, dey all daid whah wimmen concuhned. All ’cept yo’ uncle, ’caze Ah’ve watched him watchin’ women’s laigs out de window on rainy days lak—lak nobuddy’s business. An’—how! But we’ll ’sume dis jedge ain’ lak yo’ uncle, an’ has put away his int’rest in wimmens, an’ laigs, an’ all de. An’ is ‘out’—so fah as bein’ wamped goes. An’ ob co’se yo’ ain’ gonna wamp yo’ ’ponent. He dah to win he case. An’ as fo’ wampin’ de ’fendant, you wouldn’ be wantin’ to make no truck wid trash lak him—less’n mebbe,” Aunt Linda added, with a shrug of her shoulders, “he fall in lub wid you, an’ tell you som’p’n, las’ min’, dat he wouldn’ tell you odderwise. It’s on’y, Chil’, dat you mus’ look, in a co’teroom, lak a millium dollars; mus’ mek people t’ink yo’ is got som’f’in’ in yo’ li’l fis’ an’ ain’ no li’l mouse. No! Whah,” now asked Aunt Linda, with disconcerting suddenness, “is dat green dress whut Ah allus said mek yo’ look lak Pha’oh’s daughtah?”

  “Like somebody—with red hair and freckles!—she dragged out of the bulrushes with Moses, you mean,” retorted Elsa. “It’s worn out.”

  “It is, hey? Well, whah dat dress wid de fancy sateen flounces whut Ah once made you?”

  “The green one? It’s in ribbons.”

  “Huh! You shuah is been down to hahd-tack, ain’t you? Well, whah is de dress wid de big screamin’ green an’ lilac an’ yaller plaids?”

  “I’d be arrested for indecent exposure, Aunt, if I ever wore that again. It’s full of holes. Big—ones!”

  “Huh. Well, whut scrumptious dress is you got, now ?”

  “Scrumptious? None. Absolutely none, Aunt. The most scrumptious dress I know, I haven’t got!—for it’s priced at $37 and lies in the dress shop of a French woman, Francine de Loux, on Monroe Street just off State.”

  “Huh! Dat Francine—de Loo! French ’ooman, hey? Well, she’ll—but fus’—whut kin’ ob a dress is dat dress? Whut Ah mean is, do it got any red in it?”

  “Any red in it? Why, no, Aunt. It’s—but why do you ask?”

  “Why? ‘Cause yo’ shouldn’ nebbah weah no dress, Elsa, wid eben a mite ob red in it! It kill yo’ haih—whut is yo’ crownin’ glo’y, on’y yo’ don’ know it. An’ won’ see it. Well den, sence you say dis dress is scrumptious, an’ ain’ got eben a mite ob red in it, den dat Francine de Loo gonna gib you dat dress—an’ like it. So you git ’roun’ dah on yo’ way back to town, an’—”

  “She’ll—give—me—that dress? Why, Aunt Linda—”

  “Yes, da’s whut Ah said. She one ob de two customahs Ah got, whut comes heah fo’ cahd-readin’s. Don’ axe me how she and me come togeddah. An’ she ain’t no French ’ooman eider—she Irish as Patty’s sow. Ah gabe huh a readin’ two weeks ago, whut cos’ huh on’y twenty-fi’ cents—an’ ’count ob dat readin’—de future predictionals in it—she mek ober a t’ousum dollahs by buyin’ some bankrup’ stock ob crazy gowns, f’um some Jew in New Yohk. Whut she been sellin’ since—as impohted French dresses—at a big profick. An’ she drap in, night befo’ las’, an’ she say, ‘Linda, Ah ain’t got nahy cash to rewahd you—fo’ Ah is sunk to de neck in stock an’ chattel mohgages—payin’ out neah every night mos’ ob de money Ah gits in du’in’ de day; but yo’ come ’roun’ mah shop any time—an’ Ah’ll gib yo’ any dress dat yo’ picks out in the whol’ place.’ Well, Ah ain’ nebbah gone ’roun’, Elsa, fo’ de kin’ ob dresses Ah likes, wid libely coluhs, she ain’ got—and mebbe ain’t nebbah goin’ to git. So—” And here Aunt Linda resuscitated from some pocket of her brilliantly flowered gypsy-like dress, a pencil stub, and on a piece of paper brought up from the same pocket, which she laid out on the flat handle of her rocker, laboriously wrote something. Which scrap of paper she then handed to Elsa.

  Who, in turn, surveyed it curiously. It said:

  Gib my neece Elsa Colby whuts to do some tryin in a big tryal de gown whut you done said I is GOT to eccep sos de nex readins tween us wone run fals. She alriddy got huh I on same.

  Linda Cooksey

  Elsa held the order, undecidedly. That stunning gown—in the window of Francine de Loux—it was tempting!—but poor Aunt—

  “Put dat in yo’ pocket,” Aunt Linda was ordering. “Dis is se’ius. Can’t peoples stan’ on foolishments ’bout who owns whut. You, gal, is got to go into coht!”

  Elsa pocketed the slip helplessly. Aunt Linda had a way about her, so Elsa felt, that she ought to be trying a few cases in court herself.

  “All right, Aunt,” Elsa said. “But so far as what you said a couple of minutes back goes, namely: about my being able to vamp defendants into revealing state secrets—and out­smarting ‘thick-headed political’ lawyers—you’re certainly the world’s greatest optimist. My freckles, alone, would tie the tongue of a drunken pathological liar, about to confess something—anything—on my shoulder! And my—but about ‘thick-headed political lawyers’—well, let me say that the State’s Attorney—who will beyond any doubt try this case—since it was his own office that was robbed, and his own re-nomination that was stolen—is no thick-headed lawyer. He’s a keen sharp man who got the berth because he was fitted for it. And—but thanks for the implied compliments to me. The set-up is as you’ve put it—and you’ve made everything quite clear. And have, incidentally, told me more about Uncle Silas here today than I knew from virtually growing up within range of his beneficent presence!”

  “Meanin’—des whut?” inquired Aunt Linda with a frown.

  “Why—about him believing—or at least half-believing—in ‘conjures’; and his looking out the windows on rainy days at women’s legs—my goodness! It’s rather revealing—don’t you know?—to have a complete and true picture—of one’s own half-uncle!”

  “You po’ po’ chil’,” Aunt Linda said, shaking her turbaned head. “Don’ yo’ know dat neidah yo’, no’ Bella, no’ Manny, no’ nobuddah else who ebbah hab contack’ed dat man, know de real man? W’y, dat man, Elsa—he been wea’in’ a mask all he life; an’ de real Silas Moffit is somethin’ nobody know, o’ eben dream ’bout. It teks a ol’ niggah ’ooman what mess aroun’ wid voodoo to know dem t’ings.”

  And strange to say, Elsa believed Aunt Linda Cooksey!

  “Well, just what,” she asked curiously, “is the true picture of my uncle, Aunt Linda?—the man back of that peculiar stage character in black clothes, and ever carrying an umbrella, that I know as Uncle Silas?”

  Aunt Linda threw up her hands helplessly., “Good God, Chil’—Ah don’ know. It’s on’y de mask Ah sees—w’ile yo’ don’ see eben dat. Whut back ob de mask, even Ah kain’ see. Ah on’y know dat someday, w’en Silas Moffit on his deaf-bed and out ob he haid, he gonna surprise all de res’ ob yo’ whut’s ’roun’ his bedside—as de mask falls off. On’y t’ing whut Ah can say, wid asshu’ance, is dat de real Silas Moffit, whut’s back ob de mask, is des as bad an’ orn’ry as de one wid de mask. But—kin tell yo’ two fings an’way ’bout de man behin’ de mask: he a ‘gibuppah’—by ‘hair’tance f’m he father, Grandfather Sylvestah Moffit. An’ two—he crazy—fo’ de plumb same reason!”

  “Crazy, Aunt Linda? Oh you’re absolutely wrong there. For—well assuming on the basis of the old Illinois Common Law that anybody who commits suicide is crazy—we’ll call Grandfather Moffit thus, since he did end his own life. And whether he really was—or really wasn’t—glad I am that I haven’t any of his blood in me. But his blood, don’t forget, Aunt Linda, became diluted one half in Uncle Silas. And whatever Uncle Silas is, he certainly isn’t crazy. Don’t forget I once worked in the Elgin State Hospital for six months as girl clerk, and have read more than one book on psychi—er—craziness. And I can assure you positively—”

  “Don’ keer,” Aunt Linda interrupted scornfully, “whut de foo
l books says. Ah says he is crazy. But de trubble is, dat he crazy on on’y one p’int. An’ dem kin’s peoples, Elsa, nebber gits locked up.”

  “Well, you’re right on that. But what is the paranoiacal—er—single point?”

  “W’y—Saul, ob co’se. De hatred he got on Saul ’mount to plain insan’ty.”

  “Yes? Well, I understand, from somebody who met Saul more recently than I have, that Saul is twice as antagonistic to his fa—”

  “Ne’ min’ de fancy wuhds! Saul, bein’ Silas’ son—an’ thahfo’ ca’yin’ de blood ob Gran’fathah Sylvestah Moffit—is lakwise crazy—on’y he got two p’ints he crazy on.”

  “Oh—I see! Saul, being fully a three-quarter dilution of Grandfather Moffit’s blood, nevertheless takes on an additional point of insanity! The professors of psychiatry, Aunt, will be glad to meet you. Well—what are Saul’s Castor and Pollux—of insanity?”

  Elsa’s reference to the twin stars of the heavens did not in the least faze Aunt Linda.

  “W’y, she replied promptly, “his onreasonin’ hatred ob his fathah—w’ich ain’ natu’al f’m a blood son—an’ dat collectin’ he do, ob ol’ spectacles.”

  “Saul?—collects spectacles? For heaven’s sake! But how—how do you know that?”

  “How ? Didn’ Ah clean up—all fo’ nuffin—’bout 2 yeahs ago—de attick room whah de po’ wretch den libbin’—all in rags an’ eber’thing?—an’ see de walls all line’ wid specs? Hyster’cal spectacles, dey wuz. He buy de fool t’ings w’en he can’t eat. Da’s insan’ty!”

  “We-ell—I dunno! If collectorship is insanity, Aunt Linda, then there’s lots of bugs on the outside of asylum walls. But I am surprised. At such—such a type of collecting. Saul would be mighty interrested in a pair of spectacles I saw—day before yesterday—made of wood, and with a weird, weird history.”