Haven couldn’t watch. He held the hen down against the gouged surface of the block and turned away, hoping the axe would hit its mark and not his hands. The axe fell and the chicken’s head dropped off. He let go and was amazed to see the body leap off the stump and dart around the yard as though its head was still attached.
“Doesn’t it know it’s supposed to be dead?” he asked.
“It’ll sink in, in a minute or two,” Marcus explained, wiping the blade in a patch of grass by the shed. He followed the headless bird around the yard. The remainder of the flock had regrouped and it dashed toward them, sprinkling a stream of blood behind. The headless chicken swayed on its ringed feet, floundered and fell on its side, scattering the other chickens across the yard.
Marcus held the dead chicken up by the feet and allowed the blood to drain from the stump.
“What are you doing?” Bess screamed from behind the screen door. “You drop that bird and get away from here!”
Haven and Marcus stared at her. What little colour had suffused her complexion before had completely disappeared. Her narrow mouth was pinched into a small tight hole as round as her panicky eyes. She gripped a stained dishtowel to her flaccid bosom as though concealing some secret.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Marcus’s voice dropped into a more formal tone and he tipped his cap in her direction. “I was just helping the young man . . . ah . . . ”
“Haven.”
“Haven, here with some of his chores, hoping I could maybe get a bite to eat in exchange, if that is agreeable with you, of course.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Bess pushed her way through the back door and stood on the porch, hands thrust against both hips. “This man is a vagrant, a hobo. What are you doing consorting with his kind?”
“I don’t know.” Haven shrugged. He failed to see what the big deal was. Marcus didn’t look like a bum to him. Bess turned her attention back to Marcus.
“You put that bird down and get off my property before I call the police,” she demanded. “I never want to see you around here again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marcus nodded and placed the dead chicken in the washtub under the spout. “I’m sorry to trouble you. Have a nice day.”
He gathered his coat and bedroll from the fence. Before leaving he knelt by the chopping block and gathered a few pieces of the wood that littered the ground.
“Can I have a few sticks of this?” he asked. “So I can have a fire tonight.”
“Take it and go!” Bess flapped her dishtowel in his direction as though shooing away a stubborn swarm of gnats.
“Thank you for your kindness.” Marcus wrapped the wood in his overcoat and backed away from the yard. He nodded in Haven’s direction. “It was good to meet you nice folks. Thank you for the wood. I hope I didn’t trouble you too much.”
“Go!” Bess pointed a gnarled finger and Marcus backed through the gate as though eluding a robber holding him at gunpoint.
“You don’t have to be so hard on him,” Haven said as he watched Marcus turn and trudge up the path toward the woods. “All he wanted was something to eat.”
“You have a lot to learn about those kinds of people,” Bess scowled. “For a city boy you really ought to know better. Now go pluck that chicken and give her to me. The pot’s all ready.”
She swooped back into the house. Haven stuck out his tongue at her back as she went.
It wasn’t difficult for Haven to find the campsite. All he had to do was follow the string of notes that flowed across the open field. A thick tendril of smoke rose in the distance and smothered the stars scattered across the stark black sky. He carried a covered casserole dish wrapped in Bess’s dishrag. She had given it to him after they had finished eating.
“Go take this out to him.”
Haven knew who she meant. He had watched her stew the chicken, adding more dumplings and carrots to the pot than was needed for just the two of them. Haven was glad to go.
Marcus sat cross-legged on top of his coat. A fire danced and crackled in the warm night air. His bedroll lay beside him, a gnawed piece of salt cod wrapped in newspaper on top of it. His chin dipped down to his chest and he blew long, sultry notes through his harmonica, improvising a tune to the rhythm of crickets that chirped among the tall grass and brush. Haven stood at the edge of the clearing, watching and listening.
“I’ve brought you some food,” he said when Marcus finished playing.
“Thanks.” Marcus smiled and slipped the harmonica into his breast pocket.
“Mind if I stay awhile?” Haven sat beside the bedroll and handed him the casserole.
“Not at all,” Marcus replied. “But does your granny mind?”
“Actually she wanted me to wait until you finished eating so I could bring back the dish,” Haven explained. “She thinks you’re going to steal it.”
“I may be a drifter but I’m not a thief,” Marcus declared and lifted the lid off the casserole. A cloud of steam billowed from the dish. The food was good but he could hardly taste it. The salt cod had stung his mouth raw and everything tasted bland as though his tongue was coated with soap.
“Tell your granny she’s a good cook,” he said when he finished and passed the casserole to Haven.
“I think she already knows that,” Haven said.
Marcus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small tin of tobacco and a package of cigarette papers.
“You smoke?”
Haven nodded. Marcus rolled a cigarette and passed it to him before rolling one for himself. They lit their cigarettes with twigs from the fire and sat smoking and watching the flames flutter and scatter little sparks in the night.
“So what city you from?” Marcus asked.
“Hamilton.”
“You’re a long way from home.” Marcus blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “What you doing all the way out here?”
“I got dumped here by my father,” Haven scowled. “He went up north looking for work at the relief camps. Said it’s only for the summer but I think he’s full of shit.”
“Is that what he told you?” Marcus chuckled. “That’s what everybody tells their families when they leave. You’re right, he is full of shit. We all tell them we’re coming back when we find work and things get better. Problem is, things never seem to get any better. I hate to break this to you, kid, but your dad’s not going to the camps. He’s riding the rails, just like me and all the other poor slobs out there.”
Haven stared into the fire and watched a charred piece of wood collapse in the amber flames.
“I’m not staying here for long,” he said. “I’m going to save some money and go out looking for him.”
“Really?” Marcus replied. “And how do you plan on getting there?”
“Don’t know.” Haven shrugged. “I haven’t thought about that yet.”
“So you want to go out on your own looking for your old man.” Marcus shook his head sadly as though a doleful memory skipped through his mind. “Take it from me, kid, you’re better off here. At least you got a roof over your head and a hot meal in your belly every night.”
“I can’t stay here.” Haven shook his head. “That old bat will drive me crazy.”
Marcus flicked the remainder of his cigarette into the fire and stretched out on his coat. He tucked his arms under his head and closed his eyes, tipping the rim of his cap over his brow.
“Trust me,” he yawned, “you don’t want to do it. Once you start riding the rails, you never get off.”
“Is that how it started with you?” Haven asked.
“And with everyone else on the trains,” Marcus admitted. “But I sort of like it here. I think I might stay awhile. I’m getting sick of travelling so much. I’ve come too far already.”
“From where?”
“East.”
“Where east?”
“Just east.” Marcus shuffled on his coat until he found a comfortable position. “I want to get some sleep no
w. Got an early day tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay if you want. Get a taste of the kind of life someone like me has to live. You can use my bedroll.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might steal something while you’re asleep?” Haven asked. Marcus smiled and propped himself up on one elbow.
“What could I possibly have that you would want?”
“That harmonica.”
“You’d have to pry it out of my cold dead hands first,” Marcus declared. “Many a man bigger than you have tried and failed.”
He collapsed back onto his coat.
“I like music, too,” Haven said. “I played the cornet in my school’s marching band back home.”
“Is that a fact?” Marcus pulled his cap over his eyes.
“I was pretty good, too,” Haven said and dipped his hand into his pocket where a hard round nub had been wobbling since his departure. “Wish I had a horn with me now. Then we could play something together.”
Marcus grunted and yawned and rolled his back to Haven.
There was no moon to light the path back to the house. Haven picked warily through the grass, squinting at the shadows of pine and balsam that flanked the weedy field; he hoped he was headed in the right direction. The house was dark save for a pale apricot light that flickered from behind the curtains of an upstairs window. Bess must still be awake, Haven thought. It wasn’t until he pushed through the back door that he realized he had forgotten her casserole dish by the fire.
CHAPTER 2
HAVEN WANDERED THROUGH THE PARLOUR, rubbing sleep from his eyes and pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. It was oppressively hot for such an early hour. A tepid breeze boosted the lace curtains in the window but brought little relief to the house. Flies buzzed lazily and hurled themselves against the screen, too lethargic to try very hard. He wiped the sweat that beaded along his hairline with the back of his hand and wondered where he could go for a wash and a shave since the house had no indoor plumbing.
Bess’s parlour was so full of knickknacks and geegaws it looked like the showroom of a gift shop. Every available surface, from the fireplace mantel to the top of the Victrola, was cluttered with small porcelain ladies in Louis XIV gowns, dainty glass animals, and framed photographs of old friends and distant relations. They were her accoutrements, collected over the course of a lifetime.
Haven peered at the faded faces, wondering if he had known any them or if they had known him as a baby. A picture of a soldier in a full-dress uniform from the Great War occupied a sacred place on the bookcase. A portrait of a young woman in a colossal plumed hat sat beside it. Haven recognized Bess’s face in her features; the curve of the mouth and slope of the nose were unmistakable. She smiled coyly from the picture, as though the photographer had captured her in the midst of a joke. By the style of her hat he thought the picture may have been taken only twenty-five years ago. When did she cease being that vibrant young woman? he wondered. A vivaciousness that occupied her twenty-five years ago had vanished, leaving behind the dour old widow who now sat rocking on the porch with a book in her lap, staring soulfully at the sun-baked landscape, a pocket watch slowly ticking to her end.
On the shelf below was a photograph of two girls about his age, leaning into one another until their heads touched. He knew who they were even before he read the inscription: Eleanor and Estelle, 1915. It was his aunt and his mother, taken just three years before she died during the great flu epidemic. Haven had never seen a picture of his mother before. Harry refused to keep any pictures of her in the little flat they shared on King Street, claiming he was too heartbroken to have to look at her image every day. Haven lifted the picture and peered at it; the tarnished silver frame felt heavy in his hands.
“Don’t touch that!” Bess shouted from the front porch as though she knew what he was doing.
“Is this my mother?” he called, unable to pull his eyes off the picture.
“Those are my daughters,” Bess said. “Now put it down before you break it.”
Haven placed the photograph back on the shelf, loathing his father more than he had ever hated anyone else in his life.
“Where can I go for a wash?” he asked.
“There’s a perfectly good pump out back,” Bess replied. “If you want hot water you’ll have to do it yourself. I’m not lighting the stove on such a hot day.”
It was a welcome relief from the stifling heat. Haven thrust his head under the spout and let the cold water sluice over his hair and down his back. He used a lump of yellow lye soap to wash the last of the grit from his hair.
By the time he joined Bess on the front porch she had dozed off in the old wicker rocker. Her eyelids drooped but didn’t shut completely so that only two small crescents of white showed. Flies whirred around her head in long sluggish circles; she batted at them with a wave of her hand. Haven stepped down from the porch and regarded the road.
“Which way to Davisville?” he asked.
“Hmmmm . . . ” Bess lifted her head and forced her eyes to open. “What do you want to go to town for?
“I’m going to look for a job,” Haven replied. Bess snickered and let her head fall back against the chair.
“Just follow the road west,” she said and closed her eyes again. “When you reach the Sebowisha River, take the left fork and follow it until you get to town. It’s a good hour’s walk at least. But you’re wasting your time. There’s no work anywhere in Davisville.”
“We’ll see about that.” Haven pushed through the gate; the rusty hinges screamed in protest.
The air was so thick and humid he felt as though it was holding him back. Even in the shade he felt little relief from the grinding heat. The hum of cicadas rose over the tops of the grasses in open fields where emaciated cows languished by the roadside and watched him pass with doleful eyes. Wispy tails batted at the flies that crisscrossed their flanks where bones tented their dun hides. Haven mooed at them; they were too listless to respond.
The road led him through the edge of the wood. He followed the sound of gurgling water through a thicket of humpbacked willows. Pushing aside the brush, he knelt at the banks of the river and scooped water over his face and neck. It was still a long way to Davisville and he had not yet found the fork in the road. He leaned back against a gnarled stump and closed his eyes, relishing the cool water as it drizzled and dried on his cheeks and brow. This seemed like a good a place as any to rest.
Girlish laughter tickled the air. Startled, Haven opened his eyes. Sparkling water tumbled over fallen logs and boulders that had become lodged beneath the surface. He crouched back into the brush. A drum pounded a steady beat from somewhere upriver. Three canoes glided across the water, each carrying six adolescent girls all dressed in beige uniforms with short puffed sleeves. The girls wore feathered headdresses and their cheeks were painted with blue zigzags and green circles. They paddled across the water to the beat of a drum played by an Indian woman who sat in the lead canoe. They began to chant:
“By the shores of Gitchee Gumee . . . by the shining Big-Sea-Water . . . stood the wigwam of Nokomis . . . daughter of the moon, Nokomis . . . dark behind it rose the forest . . . rose the black and gloomy pine trees . . . rose the firs with cones upon them . . . bright before it beat the water . . . beat the clear and sunny water . . . beat the shining Big-Sea-Water . . . ”
A girl with long honey curls shimmering in the sunlight sat in the rear of the last canoe, trying to stifle her giggling. The other girls took the song more seriously, continuing their chant to the beat:
“There the wrinkled old Nokomis . . . nursed the little Hiawatha . . . rocked him in his linden cradle . . . bedded soft in moss and rushes . . . safely bound with reindeer sinews . . . ”
Haven was enraptured. The pulse of the drumbeat and the high-pitched voices compelled him to follow the flow of the canoes. He scampered along the embankment, trying not to trip over fallen logs and the tangled weeds that choked the shore. He cowered in the brush and cringed when a twig snapped under
foot. The girl with the sunlit hair lifted her paddle and turned in his direction. Her face was etched with bright markings and a feather dangled from her headdress and drooped over one eye. She blew it from her face and smiled in his direction.
For a moment Haven’s heart stopped beating. He fell backward into a mossy clump of dead wood. A small part of him hoped the girl had spotted him, though he felt it was important to her that she hadn’t. He scurried up the embankment toward the road, the drumbeat and voices dissipating behind him. He sat down on a boulder nestled in the grass beside the road and waited for his heart to resume its natural cadence. The girl’s face swam up in his thoughts — the glint of her shiny hair and the curl of her mouth as she smiled, the sound of her voice as she sang, all sent little pulses coursing through his body.
He was so beguiled by thoughts of her that he failed to notice a stream of music drifting through the trees. It wasn’t until a shadow moved across him and the music stopped that he lifted his eyes.
A portly black man stood smiling down at him. A frosted moustache covered an indentation in his upper lip but failed to conceal rows of ivory teeth impossibly straight for a man his age. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows. He wore a black bowler that provided little shade on his dark face; fat globes of sweat trickled down his brow and burly neck. His skin glistened with moisture. The brass of the trumpet he carried in both hands sparkled bright as the hair of the girl in the canoe.
“Well, hello there!” the man said. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”
“Hello.” Haven nodded in his direction and eyed the trumpet he carried.
“Mind if I sit and have myself a rest?” The man lumbered to the boulder and sat down beside Haven. His girth almost covered the entire rock and Haven had to shuffle over to make room.
“Sure is hot today.” The man laid his trumpet in his lap and pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his shirt. He tipped his hat back and swabbed his brow.
“It sure is,” Haven agreed.
The Spoon Asylum Page 2