Cakewalk

by Rita Mae Brown

  “How long do we have to wait?” Juts tidied her books on the bench.

  “I don’t know. But Mother says, ‘Leave them to God.’ ” Ev watched people walking around and through the square.

  “I wish God would hurry up, but I suppose He has more important things to take care of than this.” Juts swung her legs. “You don’t really want to run away from home. Not really?”

  “No. Do you really want to quit school?”

  “I do. What do we do, Ev? Sit, sit, and more sit. This week we’re reading Julius Caesar. He’s been dead since 44 BC. Why should I read about him? Why can’t we learn something we can use right now?”

  “I don’t know. All this stuff is supposed to help us later in life. That’s what Mother says, but I don’t see where it’s helped her any, and she’s old.” Mrs. Most was forty-eight.

  “Yeah. If I leave school after June, I can get a job. I can learn practical things. Make money. Momma needs things and I’d like to buy stuff, too.”

  “Mother says Celeste is good to your mother.”

  “She is. She sent Louise to the academy, remember. I kinda wish she hadn’t.”

  “It did give Wheezie polish.”

  “Polish?” Juts nearly shouted.

  “It did, Juts. She learned, as Mother would say, ‘deportment,’ and look how good she’s doing at the Bon Ton. She even got Celeste to shop there.”

  Juts crossed her arms over her chest, which was growing, thank God. “Yeah, I guess, but Ev, we aren’t learning deportment at South Runnymede High School. We’re learning about Julius Caesar.”

  Lowering her voice even though they were in the middle of the Square, Ev murmured, “Shh.”

  Juts’s eyes followed in the direction of Ev’s gaze. Dimps Jr. walked with Bill Whittier, who carried her books.

  “He must have run all the way from North Runnymede to be there when she got out of class.” Juts, voice also low, noticed, “He’s sticking to her like a tick.”

  “Daddy says he’ll be an even bigger football star next year, his senior year. Daddy says he’s good enough to play in college,” Ev reported. “Why go to college unless you’re going to be a doctor or something like that? No college for me. I’ll finish high school and you will, too. Juts, you can’t pick up and leave. You can’t leave me there. We have to go through it together. We’re the Class of 1922. Twenty-two sounds good.”

  Juts soaked this up. “Does, kinda.”

  “You can’t leave me. You’re my best friend. By the time we graduate, we’ll be remembered. The cow is just the beginning.” Ev laughed. “Dimps better stay on the north side of the square. Next time it will be more than a cow.”

  “Cadwalder’s. That’s where they’ll end up.” Juts turned to Ev. “You are my best friend.”

  “Then don’t quit.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Kids after us will remember us, Ev and Juts, Juts and Ev. And don’t forget, we’re the ones who have to organize the reunion, especially for the war vets. You said you’d do it.”

  “We should do it on Magna Carta Day, ’cause everyone’s in town that day anyway.”

  “True.” Ev smiled. “Song and dance.”

  “Shoes and socks.”

  “Stars and Stripes.” Ev started the togetherness game.

  “Piss and vinegar.” Juts grimaced.

  “Hamburgers and fries.”

  “Ha. Hot dogs and mustard.”

  “Too easy, Juts. Pen and paper.”

  “Mary and Joseph.”

  “Not fair, can’t use religious names.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so,” Ev crowed.

  “Beer and pretzels.”

  “High and mighty,” Ev fired back.

  “Doesn’t count. High and mighty aren’t things. Got to be things.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It just has to be two things linked.”

  Juts thought then grinned. “Juts and Ev.”

  “Ev and Juts.” Ev laughed.

  They rose, picked up their books, skipped toward Emmitsburg Pike. A big Van Dusen truck stopped where Hanover Street reached the square then turned left toward Baltimore Street. Turning in the opposite direction was another square delivery truck, Rife Munitions painted on the side.

  “Yashew Gregorivitch must be making good money,” Juts remarked.

  “Hard worker. His sister works at Immaculata and gets her schooling. She works hard too. They have to care for their mother. Hey, there they go.”

  Dimps Jr. and Bill reached Cadwalder’s drugstore.

  “Bet Dick and Rick and everyone are in there.” Juts longingly stared at the drugstore.

  “Come on, let’s keep walking.”

  “Yeah.” Juts trudged along. “I don’t care. I kind of miss our clubs, but”—she shrugged—“nothing I can do about it. At least Bazooms”—Juts called Dimps Jr. this for the first time—“can’t go either.”

  “If you can’t go, I’m not going and I haven’t.”

  “I don’t mind. Go if you want.”

  “Nah.” Ev shook her head. “It’s no fun without you.”

  Juts left Ev at her house. She waved to Mrs. Most, outside inspecting her garden, willing her flowers to come up.

  Opening the door to the kitchen at Celeste’s, she heard her mother in the pantry as well as laughter in the library.

  Cora, on a stool, placed dishes on an upper shelf. The pantry cabinets had paned window doors so you could see what was where.

  “I’ll hand them up to you.” Juts put down her books and began handing up dishes. “Sounds like Celeste is having a good time.”

  “Fairy Thatcher and Fannie Jump Creighton. They all went out for a ride, came back, and took off their boots. Now they’re sitting in there in their socks.”

  “Fannie and Fairy come by a lot now, don’t they?”

  “They’re best friends, old friends, and they want to cheer up Celeste.” Cora dropped her right arm, palm upward. “Ready for another one.”

  “Okey-dokey. Momma, Celeste doesn’t need cheering up.”

  “A little bit. Not so much as before. Celeste isn’t one to show emotions. She missed Ramelle, but things are better.”

  “Why do people,” the fifteen-year-old mused, “want someone else around?”

  “Didn’t all the animals go onto the Ark two by two?”

  “I guess, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it.”

  “Now, where do you get these ideas? People just naturally fall into twos. We dance together, we like to walk together, we like someone to talk to, and—”

  “But that doesn’t mean everyone wants to go two by two. Maybe Celeste does, and Ev and I saw Bill Whittier walking Dimps Jr. along the square. She liked being together. I don’t think I want to do it.”

  Stepping down, Cora brushed her hands on her apron. “Juts, you’ve never lived by yourself. You’d die of lonesomeness.”

  “Less chores.” She smiled sideways.

  “Less laughter.” Cora came right back at her. “Listen to them in there.”

  —

  The laughter rolled out into the hall. The three, boots aligned in the front hall so they wouldn’t track the mud, were splayed out, Celeste on the sofa, the others in chairs, drinks in hand, told stories about their old classmates, about one another, mournfully agreed that the Nineteenth Amendment probably would not be ratified, thought about the year’s presidential election, in which they would not be able to vote, made predictions about horse races, baseball, anything that came to mind.

  “Fairy, our Celeste made a conquest.”

  “Doesn’t she always?” Fairy remained unimpressed.

  “When I left the party, she was sitting down with the shortstop. When I walked by, she was still there and finally I repaired to my room. I have no idea when they bid adieu and I wouldn’t have had any idea if I hadn’t asked her on the train ride home. She says they parted and I actually believe her. If he’d had noticeable bosoms maybe they wouldn
’t have parted.”

  Celeste coolly responded, “We talked about many things. And Fannie, I don’t care about breasts. What I care about is brains.”

  Fairy frowned just a bit. “With a baseball player? What could you possibly talk about? Of course, there’s intelligence there but, I mean, wasn’t it socially awkward?”

  “What exactly do you mean?” Fannie leveled her gaze at Fairy, narrowing her eyes. After all, Tony fit into that social category.

  “Such a different class,” Fairy replied.

  “Will you throw out Marx?” Celeste ordered. “You’ve been impossible since you started reading Das Kapital. Really, Fairy, it’s all bunk.”

  “There truly are classes.” Fairy defended her reading and Marx.

  “Of course, but why dwell on it?” Fannie boomed, rising to pour another drink. “This is America. You can better your situation. If the Europeans want to stay in their classes, fine. They’re welcome to them.”

  “But the upper classes repress the lower.” Fairy was having none of it.

  “Given the horrors in Russia, we know the lower classes can fight back. Brutally. Is there an answer? Is there equality ever?” Celeste flatly asked.

  “Never,” Fannie answered with conviction.

  “It’s possible but it takes revolution,” Fairy said. “It takes a comprehensive ideology and people with the will to enact it.”

  “Darling, those about to be chained often think they are being freed.” Celeste swung her legs under her and sat upright on the couch.

  “Let’s change the subject. We’re on the cusp of spring. We need to celebrate. Before Christianity, there were fertility rituals, planting festivals. Something. It’s been a long, hard winter.”

  “Exactly what fertility ritual do you have in mind?” Celeste teased. “And don’t count winter out yet.”

  “I don’t know. In the Dark Ages in England, didn’t they put antlers on the young king? He could mate with whomever.”

  Fairy, no longer defending Marx, lightened up. “I can’t imagine putting antlers on anyone in Runnymede.”

  “You’ve got me there,” Fannie agreed.

  Juts stuck her head in the room. “Momma wants to know if you all need anything.”

  “A good idea,” Fannie responded. “We need to celebrate spring.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Creighton.”

  “Give us some time on this, but girls, I do think a garden party is just the thing,” Fannie spoke as Juts returned to the kitchen. “That’s easy.” Fannie knocked back her drink. “The fountain will spout champagne in the middle of the square.”

  “Fannie, the cost,” Fairy sputtered.

  “Who gives a damn? We’ll all be dead someday. For God’s sake, how many of us are gone now? I say we throw one hell of a party with a champagne fountain, I say we live for all the boys who didn’t come home and for everyone we love who’s left us. I’ll even toast Brutus Rife, the dead, miserable wretch.” She mentioned a wealthy, hard man who had been killed on February 2 with few mourners and little activity on the parts of both police chiefs to solve the murder. All were quite happy that Brutus was dead, including his family.

  Both Celeste and Fairy stared at Fannie, who’d had only two drinks, easy for her to handle. She replied quietly, “Girls, we knew each other when we knew it all. And now what do we know?” Fannie almost whispered. “Celebrate life. Spring. What is spring but life?”

  “Our solar system will die. Are you prepared?” At the train station, Patience Horney pointed her forefinger at Celeste.

  “I’m afraid I’m not, Patience. When is this cataclysm to occur?” Celeste politely inquired.

  “Twenty thousand years from now.”

  “Ah, I think I’ll be safe.” The elegant beauty smiled, then looked down the track.

  “We keep coming back, you know. You’ll be here. Maybe I’ll be rich and beautiful and you’ll be like me.” Patience wistfully pushed a pretzel on its low tray.

  Celeste put her hand on Patience’s shoulder. “If we’re lucky, we won’t even be human. Wouldn’t you like to return as a leopard or eagle?”

  “A whale. Everyone would get out of my way.” Her breathy little laugh testified to the reduced capacity of her lungs.

  Celeste had known Patience all her life and thought, “There but for the grace of God go I.” She wondered, was a person like Patience incomplete, damaged? If she was happy in her fashion, who was to say it wasn’t a decent life? She didn’t know. She’d come to realize there were many things she would never know. Perhaps that was for the best.

  The train whistle blew. The engine rounded the distant curve, glided past, then stopped. The porters hurried out while the passengers heading west picked up their books and small luggage, getting ready to board.

  Celeste dropped a dollar into Patience’s cup. “It’s always good to see you.” As the hiss and clatter filled the air, she looked down at the old bandana wrapped around now frayed hair. “Have you ever ridden on a train, Patience?”

  “No. My work is here,” the odd soul said with conviction. “Don’t forget your pretzel.”

  “Not today, but I left some money for a future purchase.”

  “Wise.” Patience nodded as Celeste stepped forward.

  Striding toward her, a lilt in his step, a banged-up Gladstone bag in his left hand, came Ben Battle. “Hello.”

  She took his right hand for a moment. “Hello right back at you.”

  They walked into the station, past Patience, who, seeing Ben, boomed out, “Twenty thousand years!”

  Celeste stopped. “Ben, this is Miss Patience Horney. She works here at the station. Patience, this is Ben Battle from Baltimore.”

  Squinting, she tilted her head upward. “You’ll like Runnymede. You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  He laughed. “You say that to all the boys.” And he slipped a dollar bill in her cup as he and Celeste left.

  Celeste explained who Patience was and how she was cared for as they exited the front of the station. Francis touched his cap, opened the automobile’s door.

  Inside the car, Celeste tapped the window between the back and the front. “Francis, drive us around the square. And Francis, this is Mr. Battle. Ben, Francis, who can fix anything.”

  As they drove around the square, Celeste explained where the Mason-Dixon Line divided it, how the cannon on the south side is occasionally discharged at General George Gordon Meade, the Yankee on horseback, sword drawn.

  “Bad shots?” Ben raised his eyebrows. “He’s still standing.”

  “I’m afraid we are.” She smiled. “But we can depend on the kids from high school to paint both statues after a big game or graduation. The newspapers, one on the northern side, one on the southern, will decry the decadence of youth, the dolorous lack of responsibility but we all would be disappointed if the kids didn’t do it. Well, I’m rattling on. It’s a small town with big stories.”

  He grinned. “It’s symmetrical, beautiful. The churches are quite something.”

  “Well, that is St. Paul’s, where we worship in the bosom of Episcopalian abundance, standing next to St. Rose of Lima, the Catholic church, where my sister occasionally worships. Oh yes, you will meet her sometime, glowing with her pentacostal flame. She’s Catholic, obviously. I’m Episcopalian. That’s a story for another day but we have reached an accord. There’s the Medical Arts Building, and why they yoke together medical and arts, I have no idea. Okay, we’re crossing Hanover Street and there’s the Bon Ton department store; law firm next to it, Falkenroth, Spangler and Finster; the Rife offices; the fire station and city hall, a bit too Victorian perhaps. We’re turning onto Emmitsburg Pike on Maryland ground. That’s South Runnymede’s city hall. Now we’re passing Christ Lutheran Church. This place is filled with churches, many on the roads off the square, the Baptists and evangelicals farther out in the country. It appears we have great need of salvation.” She smiled. “And you?”

  “Salvation?”

&
nbsp; “Yes.”

  “I believe God helps those who help themselves.” He smiled. “I was raised Catholic.”

  “Here we are.” She hopped out of the car before Francis could get the door. Sweeping her arm toward the imposing Georgian structure, she announced, “Home.”

  Francis reached for Ben’s Gladstone but the young man waved him off, thanking him, as he stared at the imposing yet restrained structure. “It’s— I don’t have a word.”

  “Big. Too big,” Celeste responded. “Come on.”

  As Ben opened the gate, Francis asked, “Shall I wait?”

  “Oh, Francis, I’m sorry. Give us an hour. Then we’ll go to the game. Of course, you’ll stay for the game, too. You of all people.”

  Francis smiled. “Indeed I will.”

  Celeste looked up at Ben. “Francis hit the winning home run back in ’89.”

  “A bit of luck at the plate,” the older man demurred.

  Ben quietly said, “I play a bit myself.”

  Francis beamed. “Oh, I know who you are, sir. Miss Chalfonte is not like some, who don’t like their people talking to others. I know she won’t be upset with me when I ask, how will we do this season?”

  “We’ll beat them all.” Ben reached out with his right hand to grasp Francis’s. “Wait and see.”

  Inside the front door, Ben saw the John Singer Sargent portrait of Celeste on the stairway landing and was mesmerized.

  “Cora,” Celeste called, then noticed Ben’s trance. “My father insisted it go there,” she said somewhat apologetically.

  “Then your father knew that the painter had captured your spirit as much as your likeness.”

  “You’re very kind,” she replied as Cora walked into the hall. “Cora, Ben Battle. Ben, Cora Hunsenmeir, without whom I could not live.”

  Just then Juts skidded into the hallway, focused solely on her problem. “Momma, I can’t find my gray-and-gold ribbon bracelet.”

  “Juts,” was all Cora said.

  Noticing finally the guest, Juts froze. “Sir?”

  “Juts Hunsenmeir, this is Ben Battle,” Celeste properly introduced the youthful Juts to the man.