The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  Haven crashed into a dining room chair, landing hard on knees and elbows so that his bare naked behind stuck up in the air. Miss Nokomis screamed and covered her face. Jude laughed so hard that tears clear as crystal oozed from the corners of his eyes and he slapped his paper cap against his thigh.

  “Help me up!” Haven shouted but Jude could barely stand.

  “Get dressed!” Miss Nokomis shrieked and pointed toward the office door. “I want to see you in my office now!”

  She didn’t wait for Haven’s response. She stomped into her office and slammed the door so hard the Indian portraits on the walls swayed as though a strong wind had busted through. Haven wriggled into his pants, his face stinging worse than the abrasions on his elbows.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” Jude said when he got himself under control. “It’s just the girls’ way of welcoming you.” “Some welcome!” Haven buttoned his fly with shaky hands . He glared back at Jude as he knocked on the office door and entered.

  Miss Nokomis sat at her desk, both hands gripping the edge; her head was bowed and her long black braids dangled until the tips pooled on the blotter. Her breath heaved in and out in long rasps.

  “Miss Nokomis, I’m sorry . . . ” Haven began but she lifted her face and cut in.

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” she demanded, her eyes burning like blue flames.

  “I’m sorry,” Haven repeated. “But it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Your first day here and this is what you do!” Miss Nokomis growled. “I ought to fire you right here and now.”

  “But the girls stole my clothes!”

  “And what were you doing with your clothes off?”

  “I was so hot I needed to cool off,” Haven stammered. “Jude told me I could swim in the lake past the big rock out there where no one would see me.”

  “Jude told you that?” Miss Nokomis leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her wide chest.

  “He said he does it all the time.” Haven was aware that he could be jeopardizing Jude by telling her that, but he was so enraged that he didn’t care. “He told me the girls were napping and no one would see me. When I swam back to shore, my clothes were gone.”

  “Did you see who did this?”

  “No,” Haven admitted. “But I heard voices and laughter and I saw the bushes moving around.”

  “You could have at least covered yourself when you went to . . . to get your pants down from the flagpole,” Miss Nokomis’s voice was choked.

  “I did, but when I reached up the apron slipped.”

  Miss Nokomis chewed her lower lip and averted her eyes, fixing her gaze upon the window as she contemplated what to do next.

  “Jude is right,” she said. “You and the other gentlemen are permitted to swim in the lake at the boulder, but only on Sunday afternoons when I take the ladies to church or late at night when everyone is retired. I have a sneaky suspicion Jude may have been in on this little prank.”

  “Are you going to fire him too?”

  “No,” Miss Nokomis returned her eyes to Haven. “I’m not going to fire either of you. I need you both. But please, Haven, next time be a little more vigilant. And a little more discreet.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.” Haven nodded and backed toward the door. “Can I go now?”

  “Yes,” Miss Nokomis said. “It’s past three and the girls will be in for their afternoon tea.”

  Haven ducked out the door, closing it softly behind him. Miss Nokomis watched him leave. She rose and turned the key in the lock. Leaning her back against the door, she slowly slid to floor. She clasped both hands across her taut lips and struggled to tamp down the laughter that bubbled up her throat.

  CHAPTER 4

  BESS STOOD BESIDE THE CORRUGATED mailbox, waving her scrawny arms frantically over her head, the wrinkled skin of her upper arms jiggling like sacks of jelly. Her ubiquitous dishtowel waved like the faded flag of some lost nation. Davisville’s only police car slowed to a stop before the decaying gate. The sun gleamed off the dusty windshield; small pebbles pinged like dried rice off its hood.

  “Thank God you’re here!” Bess said as Constable Seaver hoisted his prominent body from behind the wheel.

  He was a hefty man with broad bear shoulders. His faded blue uniform was pulled taut against his wide belly. He walked like a man who had nowhere special to go, anticipating nothing. He tipped the visor of his cap and wiped the sweat that glazed his bulbous nose.

  “Morning, Bess,” he said pushing through the gate. “How are you today?”

  “Could be better,” Bess replied.

  “What’s going on?”

  “This!” Bess thrust a ruddy withered finger toward the house. Constable Seaver squinted through his sunglasses but saw nothing amiss.

  “I don’t see anything,” he said. “What happened here, a burglary?”

  “Just about.” Bess led him toward the porch and pointed.

  Her empty casserole dish sat on the lopsided front step. It had been cleaned and the spoon that poked from the hole in the lid carefully polished until it shone like a sliver of moon.

  “See that?” she demanded.

  “What?” Seaver pulled his hunched shoulders back until his spine crackled. “You mean that dish over there?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “So what about it?”

  “I gave a vagrant some food a few nights ago and he ran off with my dish.” Bess’s voice neared hysterics. “This morning when I came out to get my mail I see it sitting there like that all cleaned and no trace of the man.”

  “You called me all the way from town for this?” Seaver laughed. “Come on, Bess. You ought to know better than that. The way you sounded on the phone I thought you were in real trouble.”

  “But there’s more,” Bess said and pointed toward the gate. “See over there, on the fencepost? Someone has defiled my property and I think it was that bum who came around here. I knew I shouldn’t have let Haven bring him that chicken.”

  Seaver’s back ached as he leaned down to inspect the fence. His glasses slid down his nose and he pulled them off to get a better look. A crooked heart had been drawn with soot on the wood of the fencepost between two crumbly strips of old paint.

  “It’s just a sign to the other vagrants,” he said as he straightened. “They do that all the time. It tells the others that a kind family lives here and that it’s all right to knock and ask for food.”

  “I want it off!” Bess demanded. “I don’t want the other bums coming around here looking for a free handout. And I want that man arrested.”

  “Oh, Bess, he didn’t do anything wrong,” Seaver explained. “He brought back your dish, didn’t he?”

  “How do I know what he’s been doing with it?”

  “Calm down, Bess.” Seaver placed his hand on her bony shoulder. “I’m sure he hasn’t done anything but eat from it.”

  “Well!” Bess huffed and crossed her arms, weaving the dishtowel around her wrists.

  “If it’s that important to you, I’ll remove it.” Seaver pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He spat in it to dampen the cloth and rubbed the heart until nothing remained but a blurry smutch on the fence. “Is that better?”

  “You may as well come in for a cool drink.” Bess turned away, refusing to look him in the eye.

  “That would be swell.” Seaver tucked his soiled handkerchief into his pocket and followed her up the rickety porch steps.

  “I’m afraid all I have is lemonade. Wait here.”

  Seaver collapsed into the wicker rocker, grateful for the opportunity to sit in the shade for awhile. Bess returned with two glasses of lemonade tinkling with ice. Seaver drank deeply and smacked his lips as he watched a balmy wind rustle the weeds in the yard.

  “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Bess,” he said and stifled a burp. “But I’ve been getting a lot of complaints lately about these vagrants. They ride the trains illegally into town, hoping to find work, the poor souls.
Times are tough for all of us. I can’t do nothing about it unless they do something illegal. They mostly keep to themselves. They don’t mean no harm.”

  “I know.” Bess dipped her head and watched the grainy ice bob in her glass. The ice house was almost empty and it would be many months before she saw ice again. “But they frighten me, coming around here like that with their dirty clothes and unruly hair, smelling worse than a cowshed.”

  “It’s not their fault,” Seaver replied. “Clean them up and put them in a suit and you wouldn’t be able to tell them from your own grandson. There’s one young one seen around town lately, eating out of the ashcans behind Cliff’s Diner. He’s been heard playing a harmonica late at night in the churchyard. Pretty talented fellow from what I can guess.”

  “Can’t anyone do something about them?”

  “Gertie Follows proposed a soup kitchen and flophouse be set up in the church basement at the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting last Sunday.” Seaver shrugged. “But that was before poor old Gary died.”

  Bess’s saggy grey eyes widened.

  “Gary Follows is dead?” she gasped and covered her quivering lips with her hand. “Dear Lord! When did this happen?”

  “Two day’s ago,” Seaver replied. “Went peacefully in his sleep, thank God. Funeral’s tomorrow if you care to attend.”

  “Oh, poor Gertie!” Bess tried to blink back tears but they dribbled down her withered cheeks anyway.

  “It’s actually a blessing.” Seaver leaned forward and tapped his forehead with the tip of his finger. “He’d had the dementia for years. Hadn’t even left his bed since the spring. It was tough on Gert having to take care of him herself. In the end he didn’t even know who she was. Kept saying he wanted to go home to some address she’s never heard before. He’s at peace with the Lord now and Gert can move on with her life.”

  “But what will become of her?” Bess wept. “I’ve known her since we were both girls. She can’t be alone after having Gary with her for so long.”

  “She’ll make do,” Seaver said. “The same like you’ve done all these years.”

  “Wait here.” She patted his arm and swept into the house.

  When Bess returned she carried a wicker basket bowing under the weight of several jars of food. She handed it to Seaver as though she was passing him a basket carrying her firstborn child.

  “Give this to Gertie,” she said. “She’s a good woman and she deserves better, but it’s all I have. I baked the rolls the other day, but they’re still soft. There’s some preserves and pickled beets and a jar of my famous peaches in syrup. I hope it’s enough.”

  “This is very generous, Bess.” Seaver tipped his cap. “I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.”

  Bess clutched his shoulder as he turned to leave.

  “And tell her I’d be happy to volunteer my services to her soup kitchen,” she said and dabbed the corner of her eyes with the dishtowel.

  “Thank you, Bess.” Seaver smiled. The steps groaned under his weight as he descended into the yard.

  Bess leaned against the railing and watched the police car jostle down the road, small stones snapping beneath the tires.

  Clouds obscured the moon and darkened the sky, swallowing the stars in a singled gulp. Thunder grumbled in the west when a blue-white streak ignited the hills beyond the woods. A cool corkscrew wind kicked up loose bits of dirt and soot. The campfire had long since been smothered and the girls put to bed. Jude could see their shadows moving like marionettes behind the windows of their cabins. The rule was lights out at eleven, but Jude knew the girls lit flashlights and munched on contraband candy as they stayed awake for hours gossiping and laughing and sharing secrets. He envied everything about them: their innocence, their youth, their privilege. He would have given everything he had to be privy to their world. After the summer they would return to their mansions and private schools in the cities, Camp Nokomis just another fond memory to savour over the winter months.

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched his long knobby legs until his feet rested on the porch railing. He’d kicked off his shoes earlier. He preferred not to wear them if he could get away with it. They pinched his toes and had gaping holes in the soles. Another gust of wind caressed his feet, foretelling a change in the weather. It’s about time, he thought, we could really use some rain.

  Jude pulled his harmonica from his apron pocket and lifted it to his lips. A frog croaked among the reeds and splashed into the lake. Jude blew a series of random notes before covering the harmonica with his handkerchief and lapsing into a soulful rendition of “Angels Coming After Me”. His mother used to sing it in church before she died and the song always brought him a measure of comfort.

  Behind him dishes clattered as Haven finished cleaning the kitchen. The plates had been washed and the dough for the sweet rolls left to rise overnight. The porridge soaked in the pot on the stove; the cast iron skillet sat ready for the bacon.

  Haven stepped out of from the lodge, wiping his hands in his apron. Jude rolled his eyes in his direction and nodded his acknowledgement, but continued without skipping a note. Haven folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the screen door, a slight smile creasing his mouth as he listened to Jude play. Eventually, he sank down into a cane chair and leaned his elbows on his knees.

  “I used to know someone who could play the harmonica,” Haven said when Jude finished.

  “Ain’t that hard,” Jude replied. “Lots of folks can play.” “Not like you,” Haven said. “Though this guy came pretty close.”

  “I only play this when I got nothing else.” Jude wrapped his harmonica in his handkerchief as though he was wrapping a precious gift. “Right now I’m fixing me a guitar from an old Owl Brand cigar box. Should be finished soon. All I need is to find me some strings. Normally, I like to sing and play the drums. T’was what I did when me and Pa were in the band.”

  “You were in the band too?”

  Jude nodded.

  “Way back when we lived in Detroit.” Jude clicked his tongue and slowly shook his head. “Them was some happy times.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  Jude peered through the screen and watched another flash of lightning illuminate the pines. He counted to three and a wave of thunder rattled the clouds.

  “Looks like a storm’s brewing tonight,” he said.

  Haven nodded and stretched; a massive yawn escaped his mouth. He didn’t relish the long walk back to Bess’s house. With the moon obscured and the sky threatening rain, he’d have to pick his way carefully through the dark and hope he would make it home before the storm.

  “I better get going soon,” he said and pulled his apron from his waist. “I don’t want to get caught in the rain on my way home.”

  “You’re welcome to bunk with me and Pa if you like,” Jude replied and cocked his head vaguely in the direction of the small cabin he shared with Wetherby behind the lodge. “Plenty of room in my bed so long as you don’t take all the blankets. Got to warn you, though, Pa snores something fierce.”

  “Are you sure it’ll be all right?”

  “Miss Nokomis tell you that you get free board if you work here?” Jude asked. Haven nodded. “Then I don’t see no problem. No point in you walking all the way out there every night only to come back at dawn the next morning. Might as well stay right here with us the rest of the summer.”

  “Good idea,” Haven agreed. “I’ll have to go back tomorrow and tell Grandma Bess where I’ll be so she won’t worry.”

  “Good.” Jude unwrapped his harmonica and raised it to his mouth. “Now come sit with me a spell whilst I play another song. This here is called ‘Brother Can You Spare a Dime’. And don’t that be true sometimes.”

  He blew a series of slow doleful notes through his instrument, each one rising higher than the other until the music crested across the rippling lake and competed with the growl of approaching thunder.

  CHAPTER 5

  HAVEN STEPPED OUT FROM BEH
IND the kitchen door wearing a leather beaded loincloth, a feathered headdress and little else. Jude couldn’t help it: he covered his mouth and snickered, though he was similarly dressed in leather shorts and a breastplate decorated with yellow and blue zigzags and silver beads. He was so thin his ribs bulged out from his chest like rows of piano keys.

  “I feel like a fool,” Haven grimaced.

  “That’s good,” Jude chuckled, “’cause that’s exactly how you look. Now come over here and let me smear some of this clown makeup on you.”

  Jude dipped three fingers into a jar of red greasepaint and swiped three scarlet streaks across both Haven’s cheeks. Haven flinched under his touch, as though the makeup burned. Jude had decorated his own face earlier that evening and the paint gleamed like blood against his dark skin. When he finished, he stepped back and admired his handiwork.

  “Lordy, you sure look stupid,” he declared. “The only other blue-eyed Indian I ever seen is Miss Nokomis.”

  “The only coloured Indian I’ve ever seen is you,” Haven replied.

  “True.” Jude nodded. “But I think I’m closer to an Indian than you.”

  “Why are we doing this?”

  “Because Miss Nokomis say so,” Jude replied flatly. “She does this every year with the girls. The Totem Ceremony is very important to them. It’s when they’re given their Ojibwa names.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t know.” Jude shrugged and twisted the lid back on the jar of greasepaint. “But we’s all got Indian names. Even me and Pa.”

  “You do?”

  “Yup. I’m Nawadaha, the singer. Pa be Chibiabos, the musician. But we don’t get no ceremony like the girls get tonight.”

  Haven peered through the dining room window. A bonfire blazed in the hearth, silhouetting the girls who sat around it, eating their supper of barbequed pork and roast corn. Earlier that afternoon, he and Jude had set an entire suckling pig, complete with tail and a small apple lodged in its stiff jaws, on a spit over the coals. The aroma of roasting pork wafted over the trees on great greasy clouds. Haven was certain they could smell it all the way across the lake at Camp Hiawatha where Miss Nokomis had taken the girls to go horseback riding.