Tooner Schooner

by Mary Lasswell

  “You guys sure blew a fuse,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Don’t be put off by the size,” Jasper said. “Wait till you hear the tone. It was a great big old-time Mason and Hamlin upright. A fellow in National City cut it down and restrung it for us.”

  Miss Tinkham got up and struck a chord.

  “There never was a tone like it,” she said. “I’m a better woman for knowing you, Oscar. I take my solemn oath to practice every day.”

  “You play swell. Miss Tinkham. I’d be satisfied to do one tenth as good.”

  “Once, Oscar, I did.”

  “Start right now!” Red brought up a chair and sat down close by. “What about ‘Shine On, Harvest Moon’?”

  “Before the saints come marching in,” Velma said, “here’s a donation that I hope you’ll all get the good of.” She handed Mrs. Feeley a slip of paper. Mrs. Feeley squinted at it and handed it to Miss Tinkham.

  “It’s a gift certificate,” she said. “One hundred and fifty dollars in merchandise at the Point Loma Gardens!”

  “Velma,” Mrs. Feeley said finally, “I’m dumbfoundered. You don’t hardly know us from Adam’s old fox!”

  “My pleasures are few,” Velma said. “Don’t deny me this one.”

  “Gawd! That’s the last thing I’d do! Remember them big bushes we seen on the way home from keepin’ Timmy’s saloon for him? Rosydandrums. That’s what they was. I been pinin’ for two o’ them ever since I seen ’em that time. We’ll have ’em now!”

  “Will they grow in California?” Miss Tinkham said. “The climate of New Jersey…”

  “They’ll grow.” Mrs. Feeley’s tone left no doubt as to the fact that rhododendrons would grow any place a person was lucky enough to have the price of a couple. “We’ll get them high-breds.”

  “Only one thing wrong,” Mrs. Rasmussen said softly. “Shame all the gang wasn’t here to see the handsome stuff you give all of us.”

  “Start the music, Miss Tinkham,” Oscar said. “Don’t worry about the gang: they’ve knew all about this for months. Long before we even bought the buses.”

  “I can’t even think of any square words,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  A shattering crash brought her to the front door. Her friends were not long behind her. Down the driveway they pelted to the sidewalk facing on Island Avenue. Old-Timer had a truck backed up to the sidewalk with a two-by-twelve for a gangplank to the ground. He stood mopping his face with a red bandanna surveying the wreckage around him. One section of his handiwork he had delivered intact. A section of wall consisting of five equilateral triangles nailed together formed a racklike frame about four feet high in which beautiful, gleaming bottles were racked up the way pool balls are. The bases of the first and third triangles formed a V-shape that was filled by the apex of the second triangle. Every other triangle was filled with dark amber beer bottles in contrast to the green ale bottles. The frames were painted spruce green.

  “All that work, an’ they smashed on him!” Mrs. Feeley cried. “What’d you have to go an’ try it alone for. Boar Brain? You borried Slim’s truck; whyn’t he help you?”

  “It really is lovely,” Miss Tinkham said. “Don’t scold, Mrs. Feeley.”

  “I’m tellin’ the damn fool how much I like it!”

  “I’ll get the broom.” Mrs. Rasmussen started for the house. “He shoulda put the bottles in place after he got here.”

  Red and Mrs. Rasmussen came back with a big sheet of tin and a brush on a long handle.

  “Hold the tin for a dustpan an’ I’ll sweep it up in nothin’ flat,” Red said. “You and Jasper lift down the other frame, Oscar.”

  “Bear a hand,” Captain Dowdy shouted as he slipped the other section of wall into place on the other side of the driveway. “We’ll get you some more bottles, Mate.”

  Old-Timer sat on the curbstone dejectedly until Sunshine squatted down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. He blew his nose loudly and began to play “Home Sweet Home” on a foot-long harmonica.

  “I like that girl,” Miss Tinkham said to Velma. “There are times when it’s terribly important to know that you matter to somebody.”

  Velma nodded and lit a cigar.

  “Just the same,” she muttered, “a hell of a lot of bartenders in this town must be wondering what became of their crates of empties that were set out in the alley for collection!”

  “It’s the intention that counts, don’t you think?”

  “God, I hope so!” Velma said.

  “C’mon, Old-Timer,” Red said. He put an arm around Old-Timer and one around Sunshine. “I just figgered out a way to wire ’em so I could light ’em up at night for you.”

  “Stop pawrin’ Sunshine,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You jokers ain’t told us yet how much we owe you.”

  “Get the book, Red,” Jasper said. “It’s that kind of realism that separates women from females.”

  “Business ain’t legal transacted on Sunday,” Oscar said.

  “Legal? Who cares whether it’s legal, so long as it’s honest?” Mrs. Rasmussen fetched a brand new copybook from the bookcase.

  Mrs. Feeley took her place at the table.

  “Where you goin’?” she said to Velma.

  “Keep an eye on the waiters.”

  “We work tomorrow?” Mrs. Rasmussen said as she brought the captain his khaki jacket.

  “If you’re willin’,” he said, fishing in the pocket of his shirt. “Here’s the receipt.”

  “It’s the handsomest thing in my life,” she said. “Somethin’ like that shoulda been kep’ for the Ark.”

  “That’s what I’se thinkin’.” Mrs. Feeley scratched her head.

  “She needs it now,” Captain Dowdy said.

  “We’re holding up the board of directors’ meeting,” Velma said. “Can you bring Sunshine down tomorrow night?”

  “Depends,” Mrs. Feeley said. “If they come in late like last time…”

  “He didn’t have us to help him,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We’ll be in on time.”

  Captain Dowdy turned red about the ears.

  “No hard feelin’s?” He spoke in Sunshine’s direction.

  “That is for you to say,” she said.

  “Well…” He jammed his cap firmly on his head. “Goddamit, c’mon, Velma! Lift up the mud hook!”

  “If we let Sunshine work,” Mrs. Feeley got up and accompanied Velma to the door, “you’ll keep a sharp eye on her?” Velma nodded. Mrs. Feeley stuck out her hand. “We’re very precious of her.”

  Chapter 10

  “IT’S TOO LATE to go down to Velma’s now,” Miss Tinkham said as she dried the dishes for Mrs. Feeley Monday night. “Sunshine’s worn out.” She nodded towards the girl asleep on the couch.

  “You never seen anythin’ like the way that kid worked today.”

  “I been checkin’ them figgers,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Two thousand an’ eighty-three dollars an’ fifty-nine cents. Imagine us, owin’ thousan’s! We’re gettin’ up in sassiety.”

  “What I wanna know is where they got their hooks on that much cash in the first place,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “It’s them union wages,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Red, he’s the youngest one of ’em, an’ even if he has got ’lectric wires in his head ’stead o’ brains, he gets better’n twenty dollars a day!”

  Mrs. Feeley shook her head. “An’ me an’ Mr. Feeley lived good when he was carry in’ a hod at a dollar a day! They’re single. They could easy have a few hundred dollars in the bank.”

  Miss Tinkham smiled. “Do let’s get on with the financial meeting. The buses: fifty dollars each?”

  “They wouldn’t a brought that for scrap, after they taken out the engines and taken off the wheels,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Three hundred an’ fifty, right there, just for the buses.” Mrs. Rasmussen ticked it off. “But they never charged for the haulin’.”

  “A hunnert dollars,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Now them cinder bl
ocks,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “They ain’t wrote them down neither.”

  “Some ol’ pavin’ was tore up an’ threw on the dump. I b’lieve they was free. Put down twenty dollars for the ready-mix cement.”

  “Even with the loan of the scoop shovel and the loads of bank-run gravel at cost, by the time the asphalt topping was poured on the driveway it cost over four hundred dollars,” Miss Tinkham said. “It would have come to well over a thousand dollars if we had hired it done.”

  “They got down four hundred an’ twenty-three bucks,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Let’s make it an even five.”

  “Seven toilets, six showers an’ six zinks,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Three hunnert an’ twelve dollars?” Mrs. Feeley squinted at the figures. “’Course they come outa them ol’ Marine barracks out at Nellie’s Tit that was tore down.”

  “I near died,” Mrs. Rasmussen grinned, “when you made their plumber friend run the bathwater into that little canal o’ tiles…”

  “Need it for the garden,” Mrs. Feeley defended herself.

  “I’m gonna have some roses big as cabbages, ’cause they gotta have their feet in clay!”

  “Like all the nicest people,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Keep your behind close to the ground an’ you’ll never git no highfalutin notions!”

  “What’s goin’ on,” Mrs. Rasmussen said in her Ned Sparks voice, “the Ladies’ Garden Club or the business meetin’?”

  “It’s slightly too down to earth for the former,” Miss Tinkham laughed.

  Mrs. Rasmussen found the place in her copybook. “The lumber come to four hundred an’ twenty-two dollars.”

  “It’s awful,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Battleship linoleum from the wreckers. Good, too. They got down ninety-six dollars, includin’ the paper for underneath,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Make it a hunnert,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “The ’lectric light. They ain’t got but fifty-two dollars for material down here.” Mrs. Rasmussen was horrified.

  “Red did all the work himself,” Miss Tinkham said. “After our dreadful experience with the Ark burning, he said he would be doubly careful.”

  “Then they was the paint an’ the blinds,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “The blinds were second-hand and we bought the paint ourselves.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen got a receipt out of her bag. “Seventy-three dollars, includin’ the aluminum for the tops to bounce the sun off.”

  “I’ve clean forgot what we give for the insulatin’ batts,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Twelve bags of batts at two dollars and seventy-five cents per each,” Sunshine’s soft voice came from the couch. “Thirty-three dollars…plus the tax…”

  “Merciful Heaven,” Miss Tinkham cried, “have we warmed a little Morgenthau in our bosom?”

  “Put down thirty-five, neat,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Now what’s this here misk?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  Miss Tinkham looked over her shoulder. “Short for miscellaneous. Fifty dollars. Have we covered the major items?”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “They left out one of the principal items,” Miss Tinkham said. “The six water heaters!”

  “What’s the dif-fukelty?” Jasper came in.

  “You left out all them brand new water heaters,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Jasper took up the account book. “It was just an oversight.” He sat down. “I’m sorry. On account of getting the six, they gave us the benefit of dealer’s discount. Whole thing was under seven hundred.”

  “Long as you didn’t do it on purpose,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Have a beer.”

  “You done right, Jasper,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “An’ I love the porcelain top. Want a nice slice o’ cold turkey? With ham stuffin? We had some left from the trip an’ Tooner made me bring it home.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. You don’t think we ran you into too much money on the job?”

  “You silly goof,” Mrs. Feeley put her arm around him, “six stout weatherproof houses, five singles an’ this double, every kinda conveniencies that’s ever been thought of had oughta cost ten times that much.”

  “The way I see it,” Mrs. Rasmussen sat down again at the table and took up her book, “we ain’t covered near all you done, but as close as we’ll ever get is twenty-seven hundred dollars. You’re gonna get that back whether you like it or not.”

  “With interest,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Couldn’t we just sort of live along, rent free, till we used up what we paid out in money?” Jasper mumbled through a mouthful of turkey.

  “It is not businesslike,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Hell, no!” Mrs. Feeley banged the table. “S’pose we was to have a fallin’ out about somethin? Or you wanted to move? Or had a fight with one o’ the other guys?”

  “Look: I’ve been decent about this and humored you, but interest! That’s too much.”

  “Why should you use your friends worse’n you would a bunch o’ strangers in a bank?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “We have to get the tax assessor in to evaluate the units,” Miss Tinkham sighed. “Then we’ll be able to set the actual figures.”

  “These here houses might get us so soft that we’d forget to build the Ark,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “There’s small chance of that,” Jasper laughed. “You’ll always have a good income from these, long as you care to rent them.”

  “When we build the Ark, it’s gonna be right over there.” She pointed out the front door. “We got kinda spoiled with all this here easy, soft livin’ like we got now. The kerosene stove don’t seem so hot now.”

  “We’re gonna find another wood-burnin’ cookstove, even ’longside The Beauty.” Mrs. Rasmussen gazed fondly at the range. “Maybe we could have a fireplace in the kitchen.”

  “No reason at all why you can’t. A corner one would be nice with a raised hearth,” Jasper said.

  “An’ two o’ them pitcher windows where the show windows used to be for the plants,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Now we’re in the really state an’ workin’ on the captain’s yacht runnin’ cruises,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “We got no time to get old.”

  Chapter 11

  TUESDAY NIGHT, the great white schooner sailed its contented cargo back to the bay after dark. Mission Beach lay curving off towards the city like a diamond necklace round the neck of a lovely woman.

  “Never seen it like this before,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  Miss Tinkham kept on watching the lights in companionable silence. Mrs. Rasmussen sighed and said very softly, “He’s so fine! Reckon him an’ Sunshine…?”

  “Not if they were to burn him at the stake! Heaven defend us all from a man of principle!”

  Mrs. Rasmussen was surprised at the bitterness of Miss Tinkham’s tone. She must have smashed against the same kind of rock to talk like that.

  “Maybe things’ll change somehow,” Mrs. Rasmussen said hopefully. “I like him enough to want him to be happy, even if it is somebody else.”

  Miss Tinkham waited a long while before replying. “There is one great consolation in that kind of love: it’s the only kind that never disappoints.”

  “I’m satisfied to feed him. He sure can eat!”

  “We’re in,” Miss Tinkham said. “Herman has doused the sails and furled them. I’ll go below and make sure the passengers get all their impediments.”

  “I gotta check the stores for tomorra. Looks like a plague o’ locusts had been through that galley. Gotta make a list…” She scuttled down the ladder after Miss Tinkham.

  “No cameras left behind! What an organized group!” Miss Tinkham sat down on one of the bunks and had a beer.

  “Cheese. Ham. Spuds. Anchovies. I’ll check the lockers in the chartroom.” Mrs. Rasmussen moved on into the next compartment, beer bottle in one hand, notebook in the other. Miss Tinkham stretched her tired legs in front of her and leaned back blissfully thinking
of the taxi ride home as soon as everything was secured shipshape. Overhead she could hear the goodbyes and footsteps of the disembarking passengers. Once in a while she could hear the bass rumble of the captain’s voice as he saw the guests safely ashore. No harm in catching forty winks, she thought, while she waited for orders.

  “Ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-t!”

  Miss Tinkham’s head snapped up.

  “Ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-t!”

  Where could it be coming from? She saw Mrs. Rasmussen’s hand beckoning through the passageway. Miss Tinkham tiptoed to the next cabin. Mrs. Rasmussen was kneeling on one of the bunks, her face glued to a porthole. Miss Tinkham knelt beside her.

  “Pipe that!” Mrs. Rasmussen muttered. Miss Tinkham stared at the brightly lighted dock. Under an arc-light, close enough for accurate scrutiny, but far enough away to prevent her from hearing what was being said. Miss Tinkham saw Captain Elisha Dowdy squirming under the inquisition conducted by a female who was a cross between Salome and the Witch of Endor. “Can’t be nobody but her,” Mrs. Rasmussen grated.

  “The proprietary air!” Miss Tinkham snorted. “The Taming of the Shrew, indeed! Words fail me…”

  “Even when you’re seein’ it, you can’t believe it…like the man said about the giraffe: ‘There ain’t no such animal.’”

  “She’s come for her pound of flesh,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “She’ll get no pound tonight,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “they ain’t even a can o’ beans aboard.”

  “That’s just a figure of speech,” Miss Tinkham said, “Shakespeare. She wants her cut. Oh, for the knowledge, the inspiration of a Portia to keep that daughter of the succubi from getting one drop of blood!”

  “How could he?” Mrs. Rasmussen wailed.

  “The male animal knows no conscience.”

  “Close-featured like a roach,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “That frightful bleached hair!” Miss Tinkham shuddered. “She looks exactly like Donald Duck with a Toni!”

  “Slabsided and bowlegged from the knees up! She’s so thin an’ at the same time so wide…all spraddled out.”