“What you doing out here all yourself?”
“On my way to Davisville,” Haven replied and nodded vaguely in the direction of the road.
“Got a long ways to go.” The man tucked his damp handkerchief into his pocket and lowered his hat back over his eyes. “What you want to go all the way out there for anyway?”
“I’m looking for a job.”
“A job?” The man chuckled. “You ain’t going to find much in Davisville.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You want a job you better off coming with me,” the man said. “I know a place that needs some help. So long as you ain’t apposed to working in a kitchen.”
“No, that would be fine.” Haven grinned, his chest surging with renewed hope. “Where is this place?”
“Just over yonder in the woods back there by Lake Manito.” The man pointed with his trumpet. “It ain’t that far from here.”
“Is it a restaurant or a hotel?”
“Not quite,” the burly man chuckled and lifted his trumpet to his lips and blew a series of deep languid notes. Haven stared at him; though he played the cornet himself, he had never heard music like that before.
“Mmmm . . . that’s fine,” the man said when he finished the song and opened his eyes. “Nothing like a little soft jazz to start you on your way.”
“Is that what that music is?” Haven asked. “Jazz? That’s incredible. I wish they’d taught me that at school.” Haven fingered the nodule that rolled around in his pocket.
“Jazz can’t be taught at no school.”The man heaved his bulk from the boulder and extended his hand to Haven.
“By the way, we ain’t been properly introduced. The name’s Wetherby Moss. Now what be your name?”
Haven’s hand disappeared in Wetherby’s tight grip. His fingers were stubby and thick but incredibly strong and Haven winced under the pressure as he rose from the boulder.
“It’s a rather unusual name,” he said as the two of them strolled down the road toward the woods.
“It can’t be all that bad,” Wetherby said. “I’d heard some pretty unusual names in my day.”
“It’s Haven. Haven Cattrell.”
“Haven ain’t so bad a name.” Wetherby grinned. “Way back when the band I was in was playing the clubs I knew some characters with some pretty strange names. Ever hear of Child Morrison?”
Haven shook his head.
“That boy could play jazz like nobody’s business. Best trombone I ever heard. When he was young everybody, from his mama to his pappy to his seven brothers and sisters all call him Child. They’d say ‘Come here, Child, and help your daddy with them chores,’ or ‘Finish all your supper, Child, we can’t afford to waste no food,’ or ‘Hurry on to school, Child, before you late.’ By the time he growed up everybody forgot his real name, even him. So they just went on calling him Child.”
“Poor soul.” Haven shook his head. “It must have been awful for a grown man to be called Child.”
“It wasn’t so bad for him. Perfect for the stage.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“Don’t know.” Wetherby shook his head sadly. “I suppose the junk got to him. He always messed with the stuff when things got tough. And things got pretty tough on all us before we left Detroit.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, it must be going on four years now. Summer of twenty-nine when I last see poor old Child and his brother Sass.” Wetherby’s dark eyes clouded at the memory.
“Sass is a pretty unusual name, too.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Wetherby continued. “Was Child’s brother. Course, that wasn’t his real name either. His real name was Samuel, but we just liked to call him Sass for fun. It sounded good for the band, The Morrison-Moss Quartet. He had a pretty smart mouth on him when he was a kid and he kept it when he growed up. That ain’t such a good thing for a coloured man in a white man’s world. He’d always be told by his daddy ‘You watch that sass mouth of yours, boy,” or ‘don’t you go sassing your mama or I whoop you upside the head,’ or ‘that sass mouth of yours is gonna get you in a heap of trouble some day.’ His daddy was right, poor old Sass.”
A shadow eclipsed the whites of Wetherby’s eyes and he slowed his pace. A massive gnarled oak hunched in the fork in the road. A wooden sign with black lettering burned into it was nailed to one twisted limb. The sign read “Welcome to Camp Nokomis: An Indian Adventure for Discriminating Young Ladies”.
“Whatever happened to him?” Haven asked.
“I suspect he’s up in heaven playing his clarinet with the angels now. I wasn’t there but my boy Jude tell me what he saw that night. He might tell you someday. But I don’t suspect he be ready yet.” Wetherby gazed at the sign on the tree. He tapped the meaty pads of his fingertips against the side of his trumpet and launched into another subject. “Well, this is it. This is where I live.”
“Here?” Haven said. “But this is a camp for girls.”
“Judy got himself a job in the kitchen here,” Wetherby explained. “The lady who owns the place says I can stay here with him as long as I please so long as I play the reveille every morning and keep out of trouble. Now, you want that job or not?”
“I guess I’m in no position to be picky,” Haven said. “But would they even hire me here?”
“Only one way to find out.”
They ambled toward the camp until the road became little more than a pair of narrow tire tracks gouged in the weeds. A school bus sat parked by the fence with “Camp Nokomis” written across the side in black letters.
“This place is owned by Miss Nokomis, a real Ojibwa Indian priestess,” Wetherby explained. “They say she got magic powers. She can summon all the creatures in the wood; she can talk with the flowers and the bees. She makes the sun shine and the wind blow.”
“That’s bullshit,” Haven said.
Wetherby’s eyes bulged until the dark pupils floated freely in their ivory pools and he released a snort of laughter.
“Course it is,” he chuckled. “But you better watch your tongue around here. She don’t appreciate that kind of language. This is a proper camp for genteel white girls, not some lumberjack boot camp. Miss Nokomis would run you out of here with a switch at your tail if she caught you cussing like that.”
They passed through a gate fashioned from rough-hewn logs and stepped into the clearing. Lake Manito sparkled in the sunshine before them. A dock jutted out into the water, flanked by three empty canoes that lay like dead fish on the sandy shore. Haven recognized them; they were the canoes he saw floating downriver earlier that day. Six log cabins ringed the clearing, each labelled in succession as wigwams and each buzzing with girlish chatter like hives of bees. A charred fire pit dominated the centre of the clearing. Behind it stood a flagpole where the Union Jack struggled valiantly to snatch whatever breeze the sultry air could offer.
“The kitchen’s this way, in the main house.” Wetherby pointed to a squat timber building surrounded by a screened in porch. A massive stone chimney loomed against it, smoke curling from its summit.
Haven followed him into the house, his shoes crunching on the stone steps that jutted out from the front screen door like a great grey tongue. The dining room was dark and refreshingly cool. An oscillating fan whirred in one corner. A Victrola, not unlike the one Bess’s parlour, sat next to several crates of phonograph records, its tarnished horn gaping into the dim room like a wide gloomy mouth. Six tables had been arranged around the dining room; polished silverware and fine bone china were laid out on the starched white tablecloths in preparation of the next meal. A chandelier constructed of deer antlers dangled from the centre of the vaulted ceiling.
“Her office is this way.”
The hushed echoes of their footfalls followed them across the room. Wetherby tapped his beefy knuckles against a door in the rear wall with “Office” written cross it.
“Miss Nokomis?” He pushed the door open. “I think I’ve found the answer
to your prayers.”
The cluttered office was filled with the gaudiest assortment of Indian paraphernalia Haven had ever seen. Feathered headdresses and crudely joined dreamcatchers adorned all four walls, along with paintings and photographs of Indian warriors with such names as Hiawatha and Running Bear and Rapid Beaver. The bureaus and file cabinets held the bleached skulls of small animals and clay pots of colourful beads. An Indian woman sat behind an enormous desk, a pen poised in one hand. Her face was concealed in shadow, but Haven could tell by her feathered headband and the long black braids splayed across her shoulders that she was the Indian woman he had seen in the lead canoe. She smiled and rose from her desk as they approached. Haven stifled a gasp. She was the tallest woman he had ever seen, towering over him by a good six inches. Her shoulders were as broad as any man’s, her ample bosom strained against the buckskin shift she wore.
“Have you now, Mr. Wetherby?” Her voice was as sleek as brushed silk, deep but with a hint of birdsong that reminded Haven of something he had heard before but couldn’t place.
“This here is Mr. Haven Cattrell,” Wetherby said. “He say he looking for a job. So I say ‘I know just the place for you’ now here he be.”
“Haven?” she glanced down as him. Her eyes were blue.
“Yes.” Haven extended his hand but she didn’t take it. “I’ll work real hard. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Miss Nokomis cast her eyes down at his outstretched hand and frowned. Haven pulled it back and wiped it self-consciously against the seat of his pants.
“Thank you, Mr. Wetherby,” she said. “Would you mind leaving us so we can speak alone?”
“Good luck.” Wetherby nudged Haven in the shoulder before leaving.
“Please, pull up a seat.” Miss Nokomis pointed to a chair by the window before taking her own seat behind the desk. “You’ll have to excuse me . . . Haven is it? I wasn’t expecting Wetherby to come by with someone for the job and you caught me a little off guard.”
“That’s fine,” Haven said as he settled himself before her desk. “I wasn’t expecting to find a job so close to home either.”
“You live around here?”
“Just got in yesterday,” Haven replied. “I live with my grandma up the road, Bess Washburn. Do you know her?”
Miss Nokomis’s eyes widened and a paleness suddenly diluted her complexion.
“Yes, I know her,” she replied and shuffled through a pile of paperwork on the corner of her desk. “It’s a small community. Everyone knows everyone else.”
She pulled a ledger from under the papers and opened it to a place marked by a handcrafted beaded bookmark.
“Now, then, on to business.” She cleared her throat as she spoke and jotted his name in the book. “I need someone to assist the cook. Three meals a day plus afternoon tea. Do you know how to cook?”
“A little,” Haven lied. He had never made anything more complex then buttered toast.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” she continued, “Jude will show you everything you need to know. Breakfast is served at eight, lunch at twelve, tea at three after the ladies finish their naps, and supper at seven. I expect all meals to be served on time. I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay you much, just a dollar a day plus free meals and board if you should need it. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” Haven shook his head.
Miss Nokomis placed her pen beside the ledger and stared at Haven from across the desk until her blue eyes bored holes through him. She tapped the tip of her polished fingernail against the blotter as she spoke.
“Now, let me make something clear. This is a respectable camp for proper young ladies ages ten to seventeen. Most of them are about your age and have been spending their summers here for years. You’re what sixteen? Seventeen?”
“Seventeen, almost eighteen.”
“Good God!” Miss Nokomis sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Why do I feel like I’m letting a fox into the henhouse? Now listen. I’m trying to teach these girls proper modes of behaviour and discipline. Having a young man around might complicate things. I will not tolerate any misbehaviour. If for one minute I suspect you are behaving inappropriately, I will not hesitate to dismiss you without further compensation. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
“I do.” Haven nodded and images of the golden-haired girl gambolled through his mind.
“Good.” Miss Nokomis rose and shook Haven’s hand. “You may start first thing in the morning. Be here by seven. I’ll introduce you to Jude and you can get breakfast started.”
“Thank you, Miss Nokomis!” Haven beamed and pumped his hand in her own. “You won’t regret this. I’ll work real hard, I promise.”
“I’m sure you will,” Miss Nokomis replied.
She sank back into her beaded leather chair and watched Haven dash out the office door, whooping and laughing his way across the dining room. Miss Nokomis waited until the screen door slammed behind him and his voice dissipated into the woods before she closed the door and turned the brass key in its lock.
She leaned her forehead against the doorframe and tried to calm her batting heart. It couldn’t be him. Not after all this time. But the name. How many Haven Cattrells could there possibly be? His father had taken him away years ago. As far as her mother was concerned, they had both dropped off the face of the earth. What was he doing back?
She heaved herself away from the door and walked into the little bedroom behind the office. It was sparsely furnished with a carefully made bed and a bureau that housed her personal belongings. She pulled off her wig and set it on a mannequin stand by the washbasin. Her hair was damp with sweat. She tugged at the pins that secured her braids and allowed her long auburn hair to tumble down her shoulders. Leaning forward, she inspected her image in the mirror. By summer’s end, a natural tan would have worked its way into her skin. In the meantime, she masked her pale complexion and the freckles that dappled her nose and cheeks with a thick coating of pancake makeup several shades deeper than her natural hue.
Sitting on the edge of the quilt, she pulled out a cedar box hidden beneath the bed and rifled through its contents. Several faded photographs were bound together by an rubber band. She pulled out each one in turn until she found what she was looking for: a cherubic infant nestled in the arms of his mother. There was no doubt in her mind. It was Haven.
CHAPTER 3
A GHOSTLY MIST DRAGGED ACROSS the surface of Lake Manito. The water was so still it could have been composed of glass, reflecting the rosy fog that shrouded the pines until they were little more than dark smudges in the distance. A loon whooped from somewhere beyond the shore; another answered its call. Haven trudged through the clearing, his shoes damp with dew accumulated along the path. He yawned and knuckled his eyes where crusts of sleep still collected in the corners. The long walk from Bess’s house did little to wake him at such an early hour, but he was wary of being late on his first day on the job.
He followed the scent of coffee and something sweet baking in an oven. The door was unlocked; he entered the main lodge where the bare tables squatted like dark crabs in the dining room.
“Hello!” he called. The room was so still and silent his own echo was the only reply he anticipated.
“In here!” A voice called from the kitchen.
Haven pushed his way through the swinging saloon doors and stepped into the kitchen. A cauldron of porridge hissed and simmered on a massive stove that dominated the wall opposite the window. Three enormous ovens stood stacked in one corner and glowed bright scarlet through narrow windows. Plates and saucers towered on a scarred oak table in the centre of the room. A tea kettle whistled on the stove and shot a stream of white steam from its spout. It was insufferably hot; a wobbly ceiling fan and a wide opened window provided the only ventilation.
Jude stepped out from behind a mound of vegetable crates. He wore white pants and a white t-shirt; his apron strings were wound around his skinny waist three times and knotted
in the centre of his stomach. He wore a pointed paper cap so white it contrasted sharply with the darkness of his skin. He chewed on a heel of bread, his thick mouth working in long thoughtful motions as his dark eyes regarded Haven.
“So you the new boy, Haven?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“Miss Nokomis told me you be here,” Jude said and stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth. He stared until Haven squirmed.
“So what do you want me to do?” Haven asked, if only to break the awkward silence.
“First thing you do is go set them tables.” Jude pointed to the pile of dishes and neatly folded tablecloths. “Then I show you how to cook.”
“How do I set the tables?”
“Put them dishes up on the cart over there, take them out to the dining room and set them tables.” Jude rolled his eyes as though he was instructing an imbecile on how to tie his shoes. He turned and poured himself a cup of coffee from the percolator.
“Do I put out the cups and saucers too?” The plates rattled as Haven loaded them onto the cart.
“Sure do,”
“The girls drink coffee?”
“Nah!” Jude chuckled and lifted his steaming mug to his lips. “Miss Nokomis say only vulgar girls drink coffee. This coffee’s for me. The girls drink tea, steeped in the pot with milk. And it’s got to be King Cole loose leaf and no other.”
Haven wheeled the rickety cart to the dining room. He had never set a table before in his life. The tablecloths were thick and so white they burned his eyes; they kept slipping across the polished wood as he struggled to centre them on the tables. The cutlery was silver plated and heavy. He was unsure whether to place the spoons or the forks to the left of the plates, or if the knives sat to the right. He didn’t know where the cups and saucers belonged, or if the glasses sat beside the plates or on top. The napkins baffled him — he had never used a napkin before in his life. He rolled them into cylinders and tucked them under the rim of the plates, hoping he was doing the right thing.
Jude was waiting for him by the kitchen door, an apron dangling from the hook of his finger. He handed it to Haven.
The Spoon Asylum Page 3