The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “Thank you for calling me a lady.” Charlotte smiled and dipped her head in Jude’s direction.

  “And what makes her so special that she doesn’t have to go to church with everyone else?” Haven demanded. Jude scowled back at him.

  “Don’t you go talking about Miss Charlotte like she ain’t even in the room,” he said and pulled back a chair. “Now get your scrawny old ass over here and help me polish these spoons.”

  “It’s all right.” Charlotte rose and wiped her hands in her dress. “I’ll help you with that, Jude.”

  Haven sat at the table with Jude and Charlotte. Jude handed him a rag soaked in silver polish and dumped a mound of cutlery on the table. One by one they swabbed the tarnish off each utensil and placed it neatly back in the tray.

  “Miss Nokomis has you working in the kitchen, too?” Haven asked as they worked.

  “She says as long as I’m here, I may as well do some chores,” Charlotte replied. “But I don’t mind. It’s nice and peaceful around here with everyone gone, and it gives me a chance to talk with Jude, get to know him better.”

  “We’re both from Michigan,” Jude smiled. “Ain’t that right, Miss Charlotte?”

  “Ann Arbor.” Charlotte tapped her chest with the tip of a tarnished fork.

  “Detroit,” Jude added.

  “We’re practically neighbours,” Charlotte replied and they both laughed.

  Haven watched them; he had never heard of Ann Arbor and Detroit seemed a city as fabled as Timbuktu.

  Jude gathered a handful of spoons. They jangled against one another. He paused; a smile crept across his lips until it almost split his face in two.

  “Listen to this,” he said. He clutched two spoons back to back in one hand until the bowls touched. Leaning back in his chair, he slapped the spoons against his other hand and his thigh in quick succession; the spoons rattled with a metallic clang.

  “Do that again,” Charlotte said, a butter knife still poised in her rag.

  Jude obliged. He smacked the spoons against his leg so fast they blurred like a hummingbird’s wings. A staccato rhythm filled the dining room. He began to tap his foot to the beat, and despite himself, Haven clapped with Charlotte in time to the tempo. Charlotte threw her head back and laughed.

  Wetherby stepped from the kitchen, his trumpet poised in his lips. Haven gasped and stared open-mouthed at him. It seemed as though every time Wetherby played, Haven was raised to a higher level of amazement. The notes leapt from his horn like sparks shooting from a fire. Jude looked up at his father and grinned until every ivory tooth in his mouth showed.

  “Play it, Pa!” he said and Wetherby blew until his eyes bulged from their sockets.

  When they finished, Jude collapsed against the table, laughing and smacking his hand across the surface until the cutlery rattled.

  “That was brilliant!” Haven gasped.

  “That’s called hambone,” Wetherby replied. “All the folks back home know how to do it. But none could do it like my boy. Ain’t that right, Judy?”

  “That’s right, Pa.”

  “Haven’t heard him play like that in years,” Wetherby said. “How long has it been, now?”

  “Must be going on three or four years,” Jude replied, holding the spoons as though they were made of gold.

  “I don’t mean just that,” Haven said, looking up at Wetherby. “I meant the way you can play that trumpet. Every time I hear you play it sounds different, and better, than the last.”

  “That’s called jazz,” Wetherby smiled. “And it ain’t never played the same way twice.”

  “It’s amazing,” Charlotte agreed. “I mean I’ve heard jazz before, but not like that.”

  “Then you ain’t never heard jazz.” Jude looked up at his father and they both laughed.

  CHAPTER 6

  HAVEN FELL INTO THE HABIT of sitting on the porch at night after the last of the supper dishes had been put away. Jude, still dressed in his kitchen whites and with his paper cap limp and sweat-stained on his head, sat in a cane chair with his tired feet up on the railing and played his harmonica. If Wetherby wasn’t too exhausted, he joined them, improvising tunes on his trumpet until Haven felt the music course through his heart. The trill of cricket song kept time to their music. Wetherby joked that they needn’t a metronome; Mother Nature provided all the time their music required. Haven laughed and agreed heartily, though he had no idea what a metronome was. He was content to sit there under the glowing yellow porch light and bask in the notes that flowed from their breaths.

  One evening after Wetherby retired early, Jude and Haven sat together in contented silence. Jude fingered his harmonica, tapping it against the armrest of his chair. They stared out at the dark lake where fireflies flitted among the reeds and some small animal splashed across the marshy shore. Miss Nokomis had called lights out over an hour before; most of the cabins had dark windows but a few still glowed golden in the night. Jude knitted his brow as though in concentration. He dipped into the pocket of his apron and pulled out two silver spoons he had tethered back-to-back with a piece of kitchen string. He handed Haven his harmonica and pressed it into his palm.

  “Here,” he said. “You take the mouth organ and learn to play it. I’ll teach you.”

  “That would be swell. But I don’t think I could ever learn to play it as good as you.” The harmonica was warm, the engraving faded to obscurity by Jude’s hand.

  “You keep staring at me while I play that thing night after night with your mouth hanging open like you’re trying to catch flies,” Jude replied. “You might as well learn to play so you don’t have to watch me no more. Besides, I got my spoons now, and my cigar box is ready for strings. That’s all I need.”

  Haven turned the harmonica over in his hand. It was well worn from play. He raised it to his lips and blew softly through the comb. A faint whoosh was all the sound that came out.

  “Other side,” Jude laughed.

  Haven turned it around and tried again. This time a shrill note burst through his fingers just as elation burst from his heart. I can play this. Easy. If I can play the cornet, I can play this.

  “That’s it.” Jude nodded. “That there is a middle C. You know where that is, you can learn to play anything you want.”

  Within the hour, Haven learned to play a choppy rendition of “Home on the Range” while Jude tapped a hambone across his thigh. He nodded at Haven in time to his spoons, grinning his encouragement each time Haven hit the right note. When they finished, they collapsed against their chairs, startling the moths that collected along the edge of the screen, guided there by the light from the kitchen window.

  Haven slept with the harmonica tucked in his shirt pocket that night. Wetherby was already snoring fiercely in his bed across the room and Jude muttered in his sleep, his head periodically lolling from side to side on the pillow beside Haven. He patted the instrument and smiled, grateful to have found jazz and Jude and Wetherby. He didn’t know how he had managed to live the past seventeen years of his life without them.

  Haven wheeled the cart between the tables, gathering food-encrusted plates as he went. His paper cap rested slightly askew on his head, his sandy hair, too long for the season, poking from beneath it. Madeleine sat at her table with her chin propped in her hands; her eyes glazed as she watched him stack the plates and rattle the teacups. She was the last one left in the dining room; the other girls had long since gathered by the flagpole.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Haven asked when he saw her half-eaten bowl of cinnamon porridge and her plate of toast sitting untouched on the table.

  “No,” Madeleine sighed. Her pigtails bounced like copper springs over her ears.

  “You better eat something,” Haven said. “Miss Nokomis is taking you on a long hike through the woods today.”

  “Anything you say.” Madeleine lifted a triangle of toast, bit into it and placed it back on the plate. “I’m done.”

  “Finish your milk.” Haven crossed his
arms authoritatively over his chest.

  Madeleine gulped her milk dry, her eyes never leaving him. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and burped softly.

  “I made you a present, Haven,” she said and reached into her pocket.

  She handed him a dream catcher fashioned from red and yellow wool twisted around the frame, studded with beads in no discernible pattern. He resisted the urge to ask her what it was and what she expected him to do with it.

  “It’s very nice. Thank you,” he said.

  Madeleine fluttered her eyelashes and smiled until roses bloomed on her freckled cheeks. She lifted her amulet and showed Haven the image.

  “My totem is wah-wah-taysee, the firefly,” she said.

  “I know,” Haven replied as he gathered her bowl and leftover toast. “I was there, remember?”

  “Your totem is Mishe-Mokwa, the bear,” Madeleine continued, pointing at the amulet that swayed from his neck, “because you’re so big and brave and strong.”

  Haven grimaced, baring his teeth. He leaned forward until their noses almost touched.

  “Grrrrrrrrr . . . !” he growled directly into her face.

  Madeleine squealed and covered her mouth, laughing through her fingers. Mabel pushed the screen door open and thrust her head into the room, scowling.

  “What’s going on in here?” she demanded.

  Haven turned at the sound her voice, his heart cartwheeling in his chest.

  “She’s just finishing her breakfast,” he said and silently chastised himself for sounding like a ninny.

  “Well hurry up, Maddie!” Mabel barked. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  “Coming!” Madeleine dropped her napkin on the table and leapt from her chair, glancing over her shoulder at Haven as she crossed the room. “See you later, Mish-Mokwa!”

  “I’ll be here waiting, Wah-Wah-Taysee.” Haven waved as both girls slipped out the door.

  Jude leaned his head through the kitchen door, chewing on a long strip of crisp bacon.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that little girl’s sweet on you,” he laughed.

  “Lucky me,” Haven tossed the dream catcher on the cart and gathered the tablecloth into a bundle. “She’s all of ten years old.”

  Haven sighed and envisioned Mabel, wishing with all his heart that it was she who had made a handicraft just for him.

  Haven practiced his harmonica every evening on the porch, accompanied by Jude on the spoons and Wetherby on the trumpet. Wetherby’s stamina had begun to taper off; some nights he gave up entirely, lowering his trumpet and turning his head so Haven and Jude couldn’t see him struggle for his next breath. He decided to retire early.

  “You go on to bed and rest up, Pa.” Jude’s concerned eyes followed Wetherby as he lumbered down the porch steps, his trumpet hanging from him like a broken limb.

  “I’ll be all right.” The effort of descending the stairs and crossing the short distance to his cabin made Wetherby gasp for breath.

  “Poor old Pa.” Jude shook his head after Wetherby disappeared into the night, his breath chuffing from him like a departing train. “All them years of working in smoky rooms is finally taking its toll on him.”

  “Maybe he should see a doctor,” Haven suggested.

  “And who do you think is gonna pay?” Jude demanded. “We got to save all we can if we’re to make it through the next winter.”

  Haven nodded sympathetically. He, too, had been hoarding every dollar he earned, hoping it would amass to a small fortune by summer’s end. He placed the harmonica to his lips and played the rendition of “Sonny Boy” Jude had taught him. He had become adept at playing the songs by ear, often after hearing Jude play them only once or twice. His mouth had grown so accustomed to the feel of the instrument his lower lip swelled and tingled even when he didn’t have his harmonica pressed against it. It seemed as though his lips craved to have music flowing between them as surely as his own breath. Jude began to sing:

  “When there are grey skies . . . I don’t mind the grey skies . . . you make them blue . . . sonny boy . . . ”

  Haven adored the sound of Jude’s voice. It was slightly gravely, but with an undercurrent as smooth as polished tin. It reminded Haven of the first talkie he had ever seen at the Tivoli Movie House where a man named Al Jolson in black face and tuxedo lifted his face to the ceiling and sang as though his throat was on fire. Haven had been accompanied by Lily Watts, the girl who lived in the apartment below his. It had taken him almost a week to muster the nerve to ask her if she wanted to see a miracle of sound: the first talking motion picture complete with music. He didn’t care one way or another whether he saw the movie, but he had harboured a crush on Lily for over a year and this seemed a good excuse as any to get to know her better. She readily accepted and spent the evening with her eyes riveted to the screen while Haven sat riveted to the silver shadows that danced across her face.

  The sound of footfalls crunching dry grass startled them both. Haven swivelled round and peered through the screen, his memory of Lily evaporating from his mind. It was so dark he couldn’t see beyond the puddle of porch light.

  “Who’s there?” Jude called.

  “It’s just me.” Charlotte shuffled toward the screen in her nightdress, tightening the sash of her robe round her waist. “I just came by to get a drink of water.”

  “You ought to be in bed,” Jude warned. “If Miss Nokomis catch you out here with us she’d have my hide on a silver platter.”

  “I’ll be quick.” Charlotte climbed the steps. She paused at the door and smiled down at them before entering the lodge. “You can keep playing your music. I don’t mind.”

  “A one . . . and a two . . . and a . . . ” Jude nodded toward Haven and they lapsed back into their song, resuming precisely where they had left off.

  Charlotte returned after getting her drink; she stood in the threshold, watching them play. The glass of water beaded and plunked fat drops at her feet, but she made no move to take a sip or swipe the rim. Jude and Haven stopped playing and stared up at her.

  “Ain’t you going back to bed?” Jude asked.

  Charlotte shuffled her feet, the hem of her robe swishing softly against her shins.

  “I lied,” she admitted. “I don’t really want a drink. I heard you guys playing and I wanted to come and listen.” “You can hear it all the way in your cabin?” Haven asked.

  Charlotte nodded.

  “We all can,” she said. “Usually we just ignore it, but since you learned to play that harmonica and Jude’s been banging his spoons, I couldn’t resist. I had to come out and see this for myself.”

  Jude grinned under the porch light. He pulled Wetherby’s chair closer to his side.

  “Sure you can sit a spell and listen,” he said. “We don’t mind, do we Haven? Just don’t let yourself get caught out here.”

  “Miss Nokomis is sound asleep and snoring in her room. We can hear that in our cabins, too.”

  Charlotte sat in the chair, still warm from Wetherby’s body, the seat bowed from his weight. She gathered the skirt of her nightdress into a bundle in her lap and tucked her long white legs and dirty bare feet under her. Haven’s mouth glided smoothly across the harmonica; his eyelids were half closed, the lashes so thick they covered the remainder of his eyes. The music lulled him into a trance. Jude bobbed his head to the beat, his spoons clacking against his bony leg like the hooves of a prancing horse. He opened his mouth to sing and Charlotte joined:

  “From this valley they say you are going . . . I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile . . . for they say you are taking the sunshine . . . which has brightened our pathway awhile . . . ”

  Haven’s eyes flipped open. She sang in perfect harmony to Jude; her head swayed back and forth in time to his spoons.

  “Lordy, where’d you learn to sing like that?” Jude gasped. Haven pulled the harmonica from his mouth and stared at her.

  “Three years in the glee club at school,�
�� Charlotte replied. “Not to mention poise and ballet lessons at home plus two years playing clarinet in the marching band.”

  “Well, we’ve got ourselves a regular Bessie Smith here!” Jude laughed. Haven agreed though he didn’t have a clue who Bessie Smith was. “You know the chorus?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Then let’s hear it, sister.” Jude lifted his spoons and fell into the rhythm. Haven blew through his harmonica and watched as they lapsed into the chorus, their perfectly pitched voices rising in intensity and leaving the last syllable to trail away:

  “Come sit by my side if you love me . . . do not hasten to bid me adieu . . . but remember the Red River Valley . . . and the cowboy who loves you so true . . . ”

  Haven and Jude were stunned into silence. Charlotte looked from one to the other, afraid she had done something wrong.

  “Girl, you can come out here and sing with us anytime,” Jude said.

  “I’d like that,” Charlotte replied. “Do you really think I’m that good?”

  “You could sing the nightingale right out of his tree,” Jude said. “Why, you could . . . ”

  He stopped abruptly. His eyes darted across the dark brush beyond the lodge.

  “What’s wrong?” Haven asked and Charlotte straightened in her chair.

  “Did you hear that?” asked Jude.

  “No,” Haven said and followed his gaze through the screen. “What?”

  “I hear something out there,”

  “What do you hear?” asked Charlotte.

  “Music.” Jude rose and pressed his nose against the screen, straining his ears to hear over the creak of cricket song and rustle of water. “Like what comes from a mouth organ.”

  Haven and Charlotte joined him at the edge of the porch. Jude gripped the railing and leaned his head into the night. Fireflies zipped in and out of the brush, glowing green amid the leaves.

  “It’s gone now,” Jude said. “But there’s something out there. I just know it. I heard music.”

  “Like this?” Haven puffed a few notes through his harmonica.