The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “Put this on,” he instructed. “I’ll get you proper whites to wear for tomorrow. You look about my size, so you can wear my spare set.”

  Haven slipped the apron on over his waist, knotting the tie in the centre of his belly like Jude.

  “You know how to read and write?” Jude handed him a stub of chalk and pointed to a blackboard on the wall.

  “Of course I do,” Haven replied. “Don’t you?”

  “They tried to teach me,” Jude said. “Lord knows my teachers tried with everything they got. But I just couldn’t get the hang of it. I could read all right, but when it came time to write stuff down I kept getting my letters all mixed up.”

  “Like how?”

  “Well, one time Miss Nokomis took the girls out fishing. It was their lucky day, ‘cause they caught a whole mess of bass and trout. Miss Nokomis gives me the fish and tells me to fry them up for supper. When I went to write down the menu on the blackboard I couldn’t get my letters straight and I wrote something like this instead,”

  Jude’s hand pressed so hard against the blackboard, the chalk crumbled against the slate.

  FIRED SHIT

  “Lordy, you should have heard them little girls howl when they comes in for their supper and reads what’s on the menu. Miss Nokomis comes running in to see what the fuss is all about. She says my skinny butt be fired shit if I don’t erase that filthy language off the board and apologize to the young ladies.”

  “Did you?” Haven laughed so hard he could barely speak.

  “Sure did. I don’t want to lose my job.”

  Jude hastily scrubbed the blackboard clean with a corner of his apron at the creak of the office door. Miss Nokomis emerged, dressed in her wig and full Indian regalia. Her beaded moccasins brushed softly against the floorboards as she shuffled toward them. Her face was bloated beneath the brown makeup, her eyes red and puffed.

  “Good morning,” she yawned and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. Haven and Jude followed her.

  “Morning, Miss Nokomis,” Jude said.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and gazed out the window at the misty lake.

  “Getting all settled in, Haven?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Haven nodded.

  “Good.” She brushed past them, cradling her mug in both hands as though she carried the Holy Grail.

  “Reveille in ten minutes. Tell your daddy to be ready,” she said on her way through the dining room.

  “For an Ojibwa priestess she sure seems quiet in the morning,” Haven said after the screen door slammed behind her.

  “She ain’t no more an Ojibwa priestess than I am.” Jude snorted and stirred the pot of porridge with a long wooden ladle. “This is all play acting for her and the girls. Now go out there and write out the menu. I’ll meet you outside.”

  The girls emerged from their cabins in cliques of three or four. They wore uniforms of tan blouses with short puffed sleeves and matching shorts. Giggling and nudging one another, they gathered in a semicircle around the flagpole where Miss Nokomis waited. Haven stood with Jude at the foot of the porch and watched Wetherby Moss approach the flagpole. He raised his trumpet to his lips and the bevy fell silent.

  “Put your hand over your heart,” Jude whispered. He removed his white cap and pressed it into the hollow of his concave chest.

  Wetherby blew a slow, sultry rendition of “God Save the King” through his trumpet. Miss Nokomis tugged at the line and the Union Jack lurched its way up the flagpole. Haven had never heard the anthem played with such emotion, as though the trumpet’s horn was a human mouth and that mouth was speaking in perfect harmony. When the song was finished, Wetherby lowered his trumpet, bowed respectfully in Miss Nokomis’s direction and trudged back up the path toward the main lodge. The congregation broke away in clusters and the puerile chatter resumed.

  “They’ll be up for breakfast in a few minutes.” Jude thrust his cap back on his head and patted Haven’s shoulder. “We best get ready for them.”

  The scrape of chairs and clang of silverware punctuated the shrill laughter in the dining room as the girls took their places at their assigned tables. Haven loaded the cart with bowls of porridge, saucers of applesauce and platters of cinnamon rolls fresh from the ovens and still steaming.

  “You go out there and serve them ladies,” Jude instructed. “I’ll be here with Pa having my own breakfast.”

  Haven pushed through the flapping kitchen doors and stopped short. A dead silence descended upon the dining room as though a gunshot had just cracked the air. All eyes turned on him. Small pink mouths fell open and gaped in his direction.

  “Ladies.” Miss Nokomis rose from the head table she shared with three girls Haven’s age. His heart momentarily jerked to a stop when he recognized the blonde girl from the canoe. “This is Jude’s new assistant, Haven Cattrell.”

  Someone in the rear of the room mewed like a cat and the room erupted in bashful laughter.

  “That will be enough!” Miss Nokomis warned. “Now I expect all of you to welcome him to Camp Nokomis.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Cattrell!” the girls replied in unison.

  Haven had never been called a mister anything in his life and he nodded timidly, casting his eyes to the floor.

  “Are you the one responsible for this?” demanded the blonde at Miss Nokomis’s table. She waved her hands over her place setting as though something putrid sat on her plate.

  “My tablecloth keeps slipping down,” a small girl in pigtails complained as she tugged the tablecloth back toward her so the dishes on it wouldn’t crash onto the floor.

  “Now, now,” Miss Nokomis said and resumed her seat. “He’s new to the kitchen. He doesn’t know any better. In time, I’m sure he’ll learn, won’t you Haven?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Haven nodded and pushed the cart between the tables.

  “I hope he didn’t do the cooking,” the blonde snickered; Haven placed a bowl of porridge before her. Her two companions unrolled their napkins and held them to their faces so Haven couldn’t see them smile. A dark-haired, wide-eyed girl, wearing round glasses that made her resemble an owl, chortled. Her companion joined her.

  “That will be enough, Mabel. You too, Charlotte and Margaret,” Miss Nokomis warned as Haven served her next. “Thank you, Haven. You may serve the other ladies now.”

  Haven was painfully aware of the three pairs of eyes boring into his back as he turned and placed a platter of cinnamon rolls on the next table. All the while his mind whirred with a single thought: Mabel. Her name is Mabel.

  After breakfast, Haven collected the dirty dishes and nudged the cart back into the kitchen. Jude stood at the sink, his long sinewy arms dipped in a dune of sparkling suds. Wetherby stood beside him, wiping plates and cups with a ragged dish towel. He was so portly his apron was tied behind his back, pinching his prominent waist.

  “Well, how’d it go, your first day?” Wetherby asked.

  “I don’t think they like me very much.” The dishes clattered as Haven lifted them from the cart and slid them in the steaming foam.

  “They’ll come around,” Jude said. “You shoulda seen the look on their faces when they first saw me and Pa. But they got over it and now we all the best of friends.”

  “That Mabel girl really seems to hate me.” Haven scraped leftover porridge and gnawed crusts of cinnamon rolls into the trash can by the sink.

  “Ah!” Wetherby lifted his shaggy eyebrows and nudged his son in the shoulder. “I think Haven here is sweet on her.”

  “No I’m not!”

  “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of,” Wetherby said. “She is awful pretty. But you watch out for her. That little girl’s got the devil in her sometimes.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Haven said. “Miss Nokomis warned me stay away from them.”

  “That’s sound advice,” Wetherby agreed. He peeled off his apron and tossed it on the oak table. “Well, now’s you’re here I can be on my way. You all have a nice day.
I think I’ll take my old trumpet and go for my morning constitutional while’s the girls are practicing their archery.”

  “See you later, Pa,” Jude called over his shoulder as Wetherby lumbered out the door. He turned to Haven. “Well, now. You about ready to do some cooking?”

  No sooner had the dishes been washed, wiped and stacked on the cart than Jude began the soup for lunch. Haven watched, mesmerized, as he chopped the carrots and celery so fast his knife became a silver blur. Great gulps of steam rose from the gurgling cauldron and greased Haven’s face with sweat. He was allotted the relatively easy task of preparing the sandwiches, a job Jude was certain he could do unsupervised. It took Haven several failed attempts before he could even slice the bread straight. His first batch resulted in a mound of lopsided buttered bread with strips of ham lolling between the crusts like little pink tongues.

  “Lordy, you sure don’t know you’re way around a kitchen, do you?” Jude shook his head in disgust and slapped a particularly crooked sandwich on the counter. “We’ll have to eat these ourselves. Save the good ones for the girls. And make extra. That way we don’t need to make more for their afternoon tea. And don’t forget to make one sandwich outta peanut butter and jelly.”

  “What for?”

  “There’s one girl at camp who don’t eat no ham.” Jude turned his back to Haven and concentrated on stirring the soup.

  “Why not?”

  “You sure ask a lot of stupid questions.” Jude lifted the bowl of the ladle to his mouth and sipped the soup. Grimacing, he added a generous dash of salt to the pot. “Just do as I tell you before I get Miss Nokomis out here on your tail.”

  By the time Haven ladled the soup into bowls, and the girls came bounding up the porch steps in their headdresses, some still carrying their bows and quivers on their backs, he was coated with a fine film of sweat and steam. When he washed the dishes after lunch, he yearned to crawl into the sink and immerse himself in the warm sudsy water. Flies swirled around his head; a few stuck to the flypaper coils that dangled from the ceiling like curly strips of copper. Sweat dribbled from his chin and plopped into the sink. His clothes were so wet his shirt clung to his back like another layer of skin.

  “What do I do now?” Haven asked when the dishes were cleaned and back on the cart for the next meal. He leaned against the window frame, hoping to catch a whiff of fresh breeze. The ceiling fan did little more than push the muggy air around the kitchen.

  “You can take a break,” Jude replied, mopping the chopping block with a damp rag. “I’m going outside for a smoke if you care to join me.”

  He reached into a cabinet above the sink and pulled out a can of tobacco. Haven’s apron was soaked and streaked with food and grease. He pulled it off and tossed it on the table before peeling his shirt off over his head.

  “Is there someplace I can go to get cleaned up first?” he asked. “I’m so hot I think I’m going to faint.”

  “There’s plenty of water out yonder in the lake.” Jude pinched a tuft of tobacco into a paper and licked the edge before rolling it.

  “Aren’t there any showers around here?” Haven waved his damp shirt like a flag.

  “Sure there are,” Jude said. “But you really want Miss Nokomis to catch your bare naked behind in the ladies’ toilet room?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Go on out to the lake,” Jude said. “The water’s clear and cold and feels mighty fine when it’s this hot.”

  “Won’t anyone see me?”

  “Nah, not this time of day.” Jude fumbled for a match in his pants pocket. “The girls all have their naps between one and three. They’re all asleep, or least hidden in their wigwams and talking away. Besides, no one will see you if you go down the shore a ways, past the brush and this big old rock that sticks out in the water.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I do it all the time. Now you want a smoke or what?”

  “Maybe later, when I get back.” Haven draped his shirt across the windowsill to dry.

  He followed the shoreline past the dock and the assembled cabins that buzzed with hushed voices. The brush grew thicker; the trees leaned toward the lake, dunking their misshapen branches into the ripples on the rocky shore. He found the rock, a massive granite ledge that jutted out into the water, bits of dusty scrub growing from its fissures. He climbed on top of it. Glancing around one last time to make sure no one was watching, he wriggled out of his pants, socks, and shoes and laid them across the stone to dry.

  Haven dove headfirst into the sparkling lake. Cold water sluiced across his flushed skin. Invigorated, he surged to the surface, sputtering and spouting water from his mouth. He languished on his back and allowed the lazy waves to carry him farther out as he watched the gulls spiral across the hazy summer sky. He swam back and forth through the murky water, never venturing further than the rock, relishing the refreshing sensation of floating across the waves. He dove beneath the surface several times before swimming back toward the boulder.

  The sun stung his eyes and water blurred his vision, but he detected a soft rustle in the leaves behind the rock. He swam closer and saw four heads duck conspicuously behind the brush, laughter twittering like birdsong behind them.

  “Who’s there?” he called. He waded closer toward the rock, but received no answer. He grasped the edge and heaved himself from the lake.

  His clothes were gone.

  “Hey!” He scrambled across the boulder. Pushing branches out of his way, he ran to the edge of the woods, his bare feet crackling the soft matting of pine needles that carpeted the ground. He found no trace of his pants or his boxer shorts; even his socks and shoes were missing.

  “Damn!” he hissed. He could lose his pants; they were replaceable. But the object he kept tucked in the pocket was not.

  Laughter drifted through the branches; leaves rippled in the distance as though someone had just pushed the branches aside and fled.

  He leapt back into the lake and wondered what to do next. He contemplated weaving himself a loincloth from the brush and twigs that littered the woods, but was wary that whoever stole his clothes would reappear and catch him and all his dishabille rummaging across the ground. He opted instead to swim back to the camp and hope the girls were still napping in their cabins.

  “Haven? Is that you?” Jude sat on the porch steps, a smouldering cigarette pinched between two fingers.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Haven ducked as deep into the lake as he could without drowning. “Somebody stole my clothes. Can you get me a towel or something to wear?”

  Jude chuckled and mashed the cigarette under the toe of his shoe.

  “Lordy, you sure know how to get yourself in a mess of trouble,” he declared. He rose and entered the lodge, returning a few minutes later with Haven’s damp shirt and soiled apron.

  “This was all I could find.” Jude walked to the end of the dock and dangled the clothes over the lake.

  Haven heaved himself from the water and snatched the apron, tying it loosely around his waist. He turned and pulled his shirt over his head.

  “Lordy, your ass is as white as a peeled apple!” Jude laughed.

  “This isn’t funny!” Haven scowled. “I have to get my clothes back. There’s something in the pocket I really need. Who would do this to me?”

  “Probably some of them girls having a little fun with you,” Jude said.

  “I knew they didn’t like me.”

  “They like you just fine,” Jude replied. “If they didn’t they wouldn’t be doing this to you.”

  His eyes scanned the clearing past Haven’s shoulder. His mouth trembled as though trying to suppress another smile.

  “They’ve got some nerve embarrassing me like that!” Haven grumbled. “I should complain to Miss Nokomis about this.”

  “If that’s the way you feel, then you better not turn around,” warned Jude.

  “Why not?”

  Haven followed Jude’s gaze and groaned. At that moment he wished
the lake would surge past its shores and drag him into its depths.

  The flag had been replaced with his pants. They flapped and jigged in the wind as though performing some sort of crazy dance. Laughter echoed from the circle of cabins; faces were framed in the windows. His socks were neatly tucked into his shoes and rested on top of his underwear at the base of the flagpole. Jude doubled over, covering his mouth with both hands.

  “Better go get it!” Jude chortled behind his chaffed fingers.

  “I’m not going out there!”

  “Well I ain’t getting it for you,” Jude said. “That ain’t my pants blowing in the wind for all the world to see.”

  He shoved Haven toward the clearing. Haven scanned the cabins; all the faces had disappeared, leaving behind lacy curtains swishing against the screens. He ran toward the flagpole, clutching the sides of his apron across his rear end. Hopefully, the object was still in the pocket of his pants. He reached up and grabbed the line on the pulley, painfully aware of an audience assembling outside the cabin doors. Whistles and jeers accompanied him as he yanked on the line. He was so embarrassed he failed to notice the apron loosen from around his waist and slip down his legs, exposing him and all his glory.

  The clearing erupted in girlish laughter. A few of them screamed. Haven was momentarily paralyzed. He couldn’t decide whether to finish pulling his pants down the flagpole or grab the apron and cover himself. He stepped back and his bare foot pressed painfully on something hard and smooth. There it was. It must have fallen from the pocket when the girls hoisted his pants up the line. Haven bent to retrieve it, giving his audience an impressive view of his backside.

  Miss Nokomis came rushing out of the main lodge to see what the fracas was all about. When she saw Haven, her mouth dropped open and she joined in the screaming. She galloped around the clearing, brushing her fingers across each girl’s eyes.

  “Don’t look!” she screamed. “Cover your eyes! Look away!”

  The wind abated just long enough for the pant legs to droop. The waistband had been secured to the line with clothes pins and Haven had to tug on the pants several times before they billowed down. He bunched his clothes and apron and his prized object against his groin and dashed into the lodge, blushing crimson all the way. Miss Nokomis ran after him, her face as flushed as Haven’s, her eyes hot with rage.