Whiskers & Smoke

by Marian Babson

  It was no more than I had suspected, but it was still disconcerting. Previously I had felt guilty for harboring such suspicions, now I felt worse for having proved them. With Celia right in the next room, too.

  I moved away rapidly before she could return and discover me discovering her. It was just as well I did. I had hardly reached the neutral zone of Early American milk glass when the door at the rear of the shop opened and Celia and Viv came back to join me.

  “See anything you can’t resist?” Viv asked archly.

  “Not really,” I smiled. “I’m afraid it’s all too rich for my blood.”

  “You mustn’t tempt her now, Viv,” Celia scolded. “We’re on our way to Boston for a shopping spree.” Unconsciously she patted her handbag with a little smile of satisfaction. “We’re looking for clothes this trip.”

  “You’ll find them. The stores will be unloading their summer lines now to make way for the Fall stock. I wish I could come with you, but Hank’s off on a buying tour and someone has to keep the home fires burning.”

  I glanced at her sharply, but she appeared unaware of any double entendre in what she had just said. Probably it had been said in all innocence, but if I were one of the native inhabitants of Edgemarsh Lake, I’d be a bit more careful about my language these days.

  “Come on.” Celia nudged me forward. “The kids will be getting restless.”

  “Have fun,” Viv called after us.

  “There!” Celia said, as the screen door swung shut behind us. “That’s a good job done. I’ve been bored with those old miniatures for years and Viv’s been longing to get her hands on them.”

  “Oh, Celia—not those lovely ‘After Gainsboroughs’?!”

  “I’m planning to redecorate,” Celia said firmly, “and they won’t go with my new color scheme. Besides, Viv finally made me an offer too good to refuse. Mind you, she’ll get a lot more than that for them, even though she has to send them to her New York shop to do it. There just isn’t that sort of money around here any more.”

  “It does seem a shame.” Celia had always maintained that the beauty of paintings was that they transcended color schemes. However, it was done and there was no point arguing.

  “I’ll pick up more interesting pictures on my next trip over,” Celia said defiantly. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a windfall that will provide new wardrobes for the whole family, with more than enough left over for me to treat us to a slap-up meal in Boston. And all for a couple of boring old miniatures I’ve long since grown tired of looking at!”

  “How super!” I could hardly call her a liar. I wondered just how bad the financial position was. There were too many telltale dark patches on her walls, too many treasures missing from their assigned places.

  Had Hank and Viv (“our friendly local scavengers,” Pixie had called them) siphoned away the lot? Or had they been dispersed, piece by piece, among several eager buyers?

  Probably no one would ever know. Celia had had to admit it this time because I was right there with her as she went to sell the miniatures. She sounded pretty sure of their eventual destination, so the process was evidently familiar to her. Undoubtedly, Viv and Hank dispatched most of their purchases to New York with the dual purpose of getting more money and saving Celia’s face. Perhaps Celia made the stipulation herself, so that no local residents carelessly browsing through the shop might recognize the items and thus guess how difficult her financial position had become.

  Had Patrick lost his job as well as his health? He was home far too often—even for a top salesman with complete autonomy over his territory and his schedule.

  “Furthermore—” Celia gave a final cheery wave to Viv and slid behind the steering-wheel—“we’ll stop at Captain Ahab’s again and have ice cream for elevenses!”

  Boston had the fascination of the old and the new jumbled together, each holding its own better than might have been expected. The imposing skyscrapers dwarfed but did not diminish the dignity of the State House, with its goldleaf dome, looking down over the green sweep of Boston Common to the red brick of Park Street Church with its gleaming white steeple.

  We plunged into the basements of the big stores—Filene’s and Jordan Marsh—and ransacked them for bargains. We did so well that we had to return to the parking lot and lock our bundles into the boot of the car before returning—this time to the upstairs departments—for more booty.

  Celia spent wildly—perhaps desperately. Was it an attempt to convince me that she had no financial troubles? Or was it simply the spending spree of a woman who had counted her pennies for far too long and needed to break out or break down?

  From the big stores, we went to the smaller shops. We bore away books, costume jewellery, postcards, jigsaw puzzles, a tea-set Tessa fell in love with, a spaceman’s outfit—against my better judgement—for Timothy, and so many small items that we promptly forgot them and were amazed to discover them later.

  “I’m shopped out,” Celia sighed happily. “My back is breaking, my feet are killing me—and I don’t want to see Boston again for another six months.”

  “It will take them that long to restock,” Luke said, and nimbly dodged the loaded shopping-bag his mother swung at his legs.

  “One more trip to the car to dump all this,” Celia proposed, “and then we’ll find something to eat.”

  The evening rush hour was upon us by the time we had disposed of our packages. We joined the stream heading towards the harbor. We poured through the pedestrian precincts by City Hall and the stream divided and subdivided again, some veering off for the multi-storied car parks to reclaim their vehicles, some crossing to the bus station at Haymarket Square for their coaches to the outer suburbs and commuter towns along the North Shore.

  “We’re going to Quincy Market,” Celia said, leading us across a street and into a cobblestoned area of thriving activity. “This has all been done up in recent years—” she waved a hand at the low buildings housing shops, ice cream parlors, restaurants, food shops and workshops for craftspeople. “It’s a great tourist attraction and most of the local residents like it, too.”

  “It looks like a Bostonian version of Covent Garden,” I decided as we strolled around. Beyond us, the deep blue harbor sparkled in the sun. “Is that—?”

  “The very same. Farther up, they have a Tea Party Ship and Museum. You can still throw tea chests in the harbor, and they’re retrieved by rope harnesses. But it’s all done in good fun these days. Except for the time the Russians shot down that Korean civilian jetliner—then some people came and threw cases of vodka into Boston Harbor. It was the beginning of the boycott on vodka.”

  “I never heard about that.”

  “Oh, there are lots of things you don’t hear about from one country to another.”

  Including, of course, family financial problems. However, by this time, I was too hungry to worry about lesser things. Fragrant aromas drifted out from the restaurants and our steps slowed as we debated the delicious choices. The children voted for the one featuring the most spectacular desserts and we settled ourselves at a table and ordered.

  By the time we had finished our meal, it was dark and a bright moon was lighting the Market. Music and laughter carried on the cool breeze sweeping in from the ocean; it seemed a perfect night.

  “We’ll stop at a bakery,” Celia said to Luke, “and pick up something nice for Daddy.” Suddenly I was swept by an aching sadness because there was no one waiting for us. No one but Errol.

  “We’ve got a lovely kitty-bag for Errol,” Timothy said stoutly. The children must have felt it, too.

  “Wait till he sees it,” Tessa said, blinking valiantly. “He’ll be so excited.”

  “Errol will be delighted to see us,” I agreed. He was about to be the happy recipient of two Italian meatballs, two pork chop bones with plenty of meat and fat on them and two butterfly shrimp. Perhaps it would be wise to close the living-room door before we went upstairs tonight.

  The atmosphere changed as we walked awa
y from Quincy Market. The way back to the parking lot led through the now-deserted business district. Away from the harbor, there was no coolness in the air. Dark unsettling shadows moved in darker doorways. I repressed a scream as one of them lurched across the pavement ahead of us.

  “Street people,” Celia said softly. “Patrick always says there’s no harm in them, but they frighten me, too.”

  I pulled the children closer to me. Possibly there was no real harm in the sad derelicts, but they seemed more menacing at night.

  “Here we are—” There was relief in Celia’s voice. We turned into the parking lot, glad to see that it was well-lighted and had an attendant. We piled into the car thankfully and headed back to New Hampshire.

  The children had carried the first load of shopping into the house at Cranberry Lane and I was unloading more from the trunk, when Celia suddenly caught my arm.

  “Rosemary—” Shadows moved across her face, she looked as furtive and out of place as the street people for a moment. “Could I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “My shopping—” she indicated the mound of parcels belonging to her. “I’m afraid I went overboard. Patrick will have a fit if he sees it all. Could you keep it here for me until I have a chance to break it gently to him? Or perhaps I could smuggle it into the house bit by bit. I don’t want to upset him.”

  “Of course.” What else could I say? “Bring it in and we’ll find a cupboard for it until you want it.”

  I was glad that the moon had gone behind a cloud and she could not see my face. She didn’t want Patrick to know how much money she had spent. Because they couldn’t afford it? Or because he would ask where she had found it?

  Was she selling the antiques without Patrick’s knowledge?

  Chapter 14

  It was as well we hadn’t postponed our shopping spree in the hope of better weather. The next day was even hotter and the day after that unbearable. Then the temperature settled down in the low 90’s for the next week and seemed about to remain there for the rest of the summer.

  “We need a good thunderstorm to clear the air,” Celia complained. “I’ve never known it so bad. And it’s not August yet—that’s supposed to be the worst month. That’s when we have what they call the ‘dog days’, when dogs are supposed to go mad from the heat. People, too—the murder rate always goes up during August.”

  “Wonderful!” My own temper was beginning to fray. “Do you have any more good news?”

  “Patrick has had a letter from Nancy.” For a moment I thought she had taken my question seriously, then I noticed her expression. She did not consider that good news, it was part of her catalogue of complaints. “Nancy says the weather is mild and damp over there and she’s having a wonderful time.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Have they smashed up anything else lately?”

  “She didn’t say. At least, I don’t think she said. I haven’t seen the letter. Patrick just read out bits to me.”

  I glanced at her sharply. Was there something a little too evasive about that reply?

  “Poor Errol,” Celia changed the subject quickly. “This weather is hard on him, too.” Errol was lying in the shadiest corner of the veranda, looking as wilted as the plants. We were lazing on the swing with a pitcher of iced lemonade, waiting until it was time to drive over to Camp and collect the children.

  “He hasn’t even gone out prowling the past few nights,” I agreed. “He wants to stay indoor with the air-conditioning.” I had given up that struggle. We had begun by turning it on for an hour or two each day to cool the house, now we kept it on most of the time. I was developing a double guilt complex: first, because we were running up Nancy’s electricity bill; second, because the electric company itself was now placing large advertisement in all the newspapers asking people to conserve electricity lest there be more of a demand than the grid could handle and another big blackout ensue.

  “It can’t go on much longer,” Celia said unconvincingly.

  “It’s gone on far too long already. The lake is inches lower than it was when we arrived and—” I didn’t want to finish the thought.

  “And the woods are parched,” Celia completed it for me. Involuntarily we both glanced towards the dry rustling pines. They’d go up like torches at the slightesty spark.

  “I’m glad Greg has banned campfires,” I said. I still had reservations about Camp Mohigonquin but had convinced myself that my imagination had been working overtime the night we dined at Gino’s Place. At any rate, I had no concrete excuse for denying the children the amenities of the camp and I continued to allow them to attend.

  “Oh, he’s very careful.” Celia deposited her cigarette ash in the deep bowl she was using in place of the shallow ashtray; she was being very careful, too. “The danger is some tourist smoking carelessly. Most of them are from cities and don’t realize that they can’t throw away lighted cigarette stubs here the way they do on city streets. That’s why we have warning signs at the entrance to the woods. Chief Rogers fines them on the spot if he catches them doing it.”

  “So he should. It would be better if people didn’t smoke at all—at least until the danger is over.” This was a delicate subject. The anti-smoking faction in America was so vociferous—not to say downright objectionable—that smokers were becoming a persecuted minority. I smoked an occasional cigarette myself, but had to feel concern at the amount Celia was smoking. They couldn’t be doing her any good. Of course, she was going through a difficult time and I recognized that she needed every crutch available. I suppose I could only be thankful that she hadn’t taken to drink the way she had taken to cigarettes.

  “Rosemary—” Celia was on her feet suddenly, staring into the woods. “Do you smell smoke?”

  “We’ve probably talked ourselves into it.” But I joined her at the railing. “I don’t think … wait a minute … I’m not sure.”

  A thin gray spiral snaked into the sky in the distance.

  “There!” Celia pointed to it but I had already seen it.

  Errol got up and came over to stand at our feet. He lifted his head and sniffed, his whiskers twitched uneasily. That made it unanimous.

  A second, thicker, gray spiral drifted up and merged with the first.

  “What’s over there?” I asked.

  “I’m trying to think—distances are deceptive. There are summer cottages dotted all through the woods. Log cabins, most of them. And all along the Mohigonquin Trail there are wooden huts where hikers can shelter for the night or from the rain. The rain—” She scanned the sky hopelessly. The only cloud in sight was the rapidly growing cloud of smoke over the forest.

  “We’d better report it!” Celia whirled and dashed into the house, heading for the telephone.

  Errol stirred and crouched to jump down from the veranda.

  “Oh no you don’t!” I pounced on him and caught him up. “You’re not going wandering in the woods right now. You’re coming into the house and staying there!” I carried him inside.

  Celia was just replacing the receiver as the fire whistle in town began blasting out its grim message. Automatically I began counting silently.

  “They’d just had a report from a Park Ranger,” Celia said. “He’d spotted it from his lookout tower. But it’s better to have too many people reporting it than no one at all.”

  There had been a pause, now the series of blasts began again. This time Celia stood silent and counted with me.

  “Four—” She turned to me with fear in her eyes. “That’s North! The Camp is North! If they can’t contain the fire, if it spreads through the woods—” Suddenly she was running. I was right behind her.

  The whoop of sirens sounded along the town road as we leaped into the car and Celia started the engine. It sounded as though they were sending out all their engines again. Even so, they’d be lucky if they could get enough of the woods immediately surrounding the blaze wetted down before the flames took hold.

  We careered out
into the main highway. Celia was taking no account of speed limits and I was not going to remind her of them. The children were more important.

  She drove so fast that we caught up with the engines in time to see them veer off on the fork that led into the North woods.

  There were more clouds ahead of us now. For a moment, I was afraid the fire had started in a new location, then the clouds wheeled and circled and I realized they were flocks of birds driven out of the woods by the encroaching danger and flying to refuge elsewhere.

  “Thank heavens there’s no wind,” Celia said. “This is the first time all summer I’ve been thankful there isn’t a breeze.”

  “The fire seems a good distance away,” I said. “And there’s the highway dividing the two sides of the woods.”

  “Don’t build any hopes on that.” Celia’s mouth was a tight grim line. “Fire jumps, you know.”

  I knew, but I had been repressing the knowledge. We swung into the turning for Camp Mohigonquin and the clouds were behind us. Out of sight, but never out of mind.

  The camp seemed strangely peaceful when we reached it after our wild dash. The campers were gathered on the hillside sweeping down to the lake, watching something that was happening on the shoreline.

  “There they are!” I spotted Tessa and Timothy, standing with Luke and Dexter, and felt the knot of tension in my stomach begin to loosen. They were safe. They had not decided to go for any hikes in the woods. They were placidly standing on the hillside watching the Sailing Club preparing for its races.

  “Leave them there a minute.” Celia’s grip was tight on my arm. “We’d better find Greg and have a quiet word. He’ll know whether any of the kids have gone hiking in the woods.”

  It looked as though the whole camp had turned out for the races, but we had to make sure. The children hadn’t seen us, so we moved away quietly. Greg wasn’t in sight; he was probably in the Administration Building.