This time both he and Charlotte heard it, too: a series of notes, muffled by the night, repeated in the same order as the ones Haven played.
“It must be an echo,” Charlotte said.
“That ain’t no echo.” Jude stepped from the porch; Haven and Charlotte followed. The brush beyond the pines rustled though there was no wind to stir it.
“Give me this for a minute.” Jude snatched the harmonica from Haven and played the first two bars of “Go Tell it on the Mountain”.
The response was clearer the second time, drifting through the branches like a soft wind. Jude played the next two bars of the song. When he reached the end the phantom music picked it up and continued where he had left off. Grinning, Jude joined in.
“Who’s there?” Haven called.
A dark figure slipped from the shadows. The face hung whitely under a black cap; the mouth was covered by a silver harmonica that glinted under the light of the kitchen window. Jude and the stranger slowly approached one another, their harmonicas playing in perfect sync, their eyes locked on one another. It was so dark it wasn’t until they finished that Haven recognized the stranger.
“Good Lord, I never thought I’d see you again!” Jude threw his head back and laughed, gripping Marcus by the shoulders and shaking him briskly.
“It’s been a while,” Marcus agreed, laughing. The two men embraced like long-lost brothers, laughing and pressing their foreheads together as though exchanging thoughts.
“Marcus!” Haven ran up to him, his jaw sagging with surprise. Charlotte hung back and regarded the three of them warily. “What are you doing here?”
“Haven!” Marcus’s eyes widened when he saw Haven approach. “I ought to ask you the same thing.” He cocked his head in Jude’s direction. “You’re acquainted with this here bum?”
“Don’t you go calling me no bum!” Jude took the insult with good humour, laughing and slapping Marcus on the shoulder.
“You two know each other?” Haven asked.
“We sure do!” Marcus replied. “We rode the rails together for a good six months last year, didn’t we Judy?” “We sure did!”
Marcus raised his harmonica to eye level so Haven could see the initials JM engraved on the underside. “This man is a musical genius. He gave me his old mouth organ and taught me how to play it. Every night round the campfire he sat with me till the stars dulled and the sun started to come up, teaching me just about every song ever written and few that we made up ourselves.”
“Them were the days,” Jude agreed. “Just me, you and Pa sitting round that fire singing and playing till all the angels in heaven heard us.”
“Your pa here, too?”
“Sure is,” Jude replied. “He’s gone to bed now. Boy, will he be happy to see you!” He tugged on Marcus’s arm and led him toward the lodge. “Come sit a spell with us. I’ve got some coffee on. You can tell us all the trouble you’ve gotten into since we last seen each other.”
“I can only stay awhile,” Marcus said.
“That’s okay,” Jude replied and embraced him warmly, patting him on the back. “Boy, it’s sure good to see you. Welcome back, brother.”
Charlotte clutched the lapels of her robe tightly together and backed away as they climbed the stairs.
“And who are you, little lady?” Marcus asked.
“This here is Miss Charlotte Handler. She’s a camper here,” Jude replied.
“And where’s here?”
“This place be Camp Nokomis, an Indian adventure for discriminating young ladies.” Jude recited the exact lines posted on the sign in front. “I’m the head cook and Haven be my assistant. Pa plays the morning reveille and just hangs out the rest of day ‘cause his health ain’t so good no more.”
“I must be getting close.” Marcus gazed around the property, his eyes falling on the flagpole and fire pit and the lake beyond.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Marcus.” Charlotte’s voice was guarded and she backed further away until she was pressed against the screen door. “I hate to be rude, but I must get back now before Miss Nokomis catches me out of bed. Please excuse me.”
Charlotte turned and fled like a frightened deer, her robe flapping behind her and her bare feet slapping against the well worn path.
“I hope I didn’t frighten her,” Marcus said.
“Nah,” Jude replied as he held the door open to the lodge. “She just ain’t used to seeing strangers around here. Which reminds me, you best stay hidden. It don’t look right for a grown man like yourself to be snooping around and hiding in the bushes at an all-girls camp.”
Marcus’s dark eyes widened, lifting his eyebrows and crinkling his forehead.
“It’s not like that at all!” he said. “I’m just passing through on my way to Camp Hiawatha.”
“Well, you’re headed in the right direction!” Jude laughed.
Marcus and Haven followed him into the dining room where the tables had been neatly set for breakfast the next morning. Marcus whistled through his teeth and gazed around the room as though he had stepped into the hall of a sacred cathedral.
“Pretty swanky for a camp,” he said, removing his cap.
Marcus’s long glossy hair had been shaved clean off his scalp. A film of stubble dusted his head like scattered soot. Haven tried not to stare at it and scanned his mind for an excuse to leave the room.
“Have a seat,” he said and pulled a chair out for Marcus. “I’ll get us some coffee.”
When Haven returned, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, Jude and Marcus were seated at a table, laughing and exchanging notes through their harmonicas. Haven set the tray on the table, struggling to avert his eyes from Marcus’s gleaming pate. The coffee sloshed in the mug as he set it before Marcus; a few drops spilled down the side, staining the tablecloth. Haven sat in his own chair, cradling his mug in his hands.
“I know what you’re looking at,” Marcus said to him.
“What?”
“My head.”
Haven summoned the courage to ask.
“What happened?”
“Lice.” Marcus cupped his hand and swiped it across the fuzz on his head.
“You’re kidding!” Jude laughed.
“I wish I was,” Marcus replied. “Came down with a first class case of head lice a week ago. Ended up having to go to the Women’s Auxiliary Soup Kitchen and Shelter for the Destitute at the Davisville United Church. They were really nice to me. They fed me and washed my clothes and hired a doctor to kill the lice and shave my head. I sure hated having to accept those poor old ladies’ charity, but damn, I was itchy!”
“It don’t look too bad,” Jude said.
“It’ll grow back,” Marcus agreed. “My mother was Greek. She used to tell me all the boys in her village shaved their heads at one time or another so their hair would grow in thicker. That’s probably why you never see a bald Greek man!”
Marcus laughed, slapping his hand against the table. Jude and Haven joined him, though Haven didn’t understand what was so funny.
“So now what you up to?” Jude asked.
“Headed out to Camp Hiawatha,” Marcus replied. “The Women’s Auxiliary got me a job as a stable boy. I’m supposed to start in the morning, so I thought I’d walk out there tonight.”
Jude whistled.
“Got a long way to go still,” he said. “It’s clear across the other side of the lake. If you go by foot you got to go all the way around. That’s another good two or three miles. If you stay the night here, I could row you out there at the crack of dawn and have you shovelling horse shit by the time the breakfast bell rings.”
“I am awful tired from that long walk from Davisville,” Marcus admitted. “Are you sure Miss Nokomis won’t mind?”
“Nah,” Jude replied. “She’d never know anyway. We could row out first thing in the morning before she even wakes up. Haven don’t mind starting the porridge and eggs and taking in the milk and bread delivery. Do you Haven?”
<
br /> “No, of course not,” Haven said. How could he refuse?
“Good,” Jude leaned back in his chair. “Then it’s settled. You can bunk up with me and Haven and Pa tonight. We got plenty of room.”
“Let’s celebrate my new job then!” Marcus winked at Haven and raised his harmonica to his lips. “How bout a little ‘Livery Stable Blues’?”
“You got it, brother.”
Haven sat sipping his coffee, mesmerized by the skill and speed in which the notes spurted from their instruments. Someday, he vowed, I’ll play as good as them. All I need is a horn.
CHAPTER 7
THE CLANGOUR OF BELLS FROM Davisville United Church summoned the faithful to its doors. It was a relatively large building, considering the population of the town, constructed of roughly hewn granite blocks and a wooden belfry that looked as though it had weathered many a storm over the years. A crowd gathered at the foot of the stone steps and a few people had begun to file in. The girls of Camp Nokomis, dressed in their Sunday best, held back in small cliques around the school bus; they waited until the very last possible minute before entering the church. Miss Nokomis had eschewed her beaded leather smock and headgear and instead wore a simple dress of faded yellow chiffon with big green flowers on it, which made her skin appear sallow. Her long black braids were coiled around her head in a loose chignon secured at the base of her neck. Bess handed out the hymnals by the massive wooden doors and waved to her. Haven leaned against the side of the bus and shrugged. He didn’t think they knew one another, but he couldn’t have cared less. He had an important errand to run.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in with us?” Miss Nokomis asked. “It may do your soul some good.”
“Not interested.” Haven shook his head, the keys to the bus jangling in his hand.
“Your grandmother will be very disappointed with you,” Miss Nokomis warned.
“I don’t care,” Haven replied and pocketed the keys. “I’ve got things to do today.”
“Suit yourself.” Miss Nokomis huffed and turned away. “But I’m trusting you with my bus. You better not wreck it.”
“I won’t.”
“And I want you back here at four o’clock, not a minute later. Understand?”
“I understand.”
Haven watched the congregation climb the steps into the church. Mabel pursed her lips and scowled, making it clear to everyone that she did not want to be there. For a brief instant Haven considered joining them, if only for the opportunity to sit next to her and watch the kaleidoscope of coloured light from the stained glass windows illuminate her face.
He meandered through the thickening crowd toward the pawn shop nestled between Cliff’s Diner and a barber shop with a pole so faded from the elements the red stripes appeared pink. He’d noticed it during his first visit to Davisville when he had accompanied Jude into town to restock on supplies from Langston’s Sundries and Dry Goods. It was a small shop that consisted of little more than a door and a narrow store front window that displayed an assortment of forgotten merchandise. Three brass balls hung over the entrance and gleamed golden in the morning sunlight; there was no other sign indicating what sort of establishment it was.
Haven pressed his nose against the hot glass and squinted into the shop. It was dark inside, but he could make out the vague outline of shelves loaded with various pieces of jewellery and knick-knacks that reminded him of Bess’s parlour. A cash register sat on the glass counter in the rear of the shop. Behind it hung enough musical instruments to furnish a small orchestra: violins, guitars, flutes; even a small harp. But what caught Haven’s eye was the trumpet. It was pinned to the back wall, shining like a beacon even in the dim light of the store, beckoning him. He reached into his pocket and fingered the nodular metal piece safely tucked in there. He tried the door but it was locked, the handle rattling loosely in its socket. He wiped a film of dust from the window and peered into the shop again, wondering how he could get his hands on that horn.
“I’m closed.”
The voice startled Haven. He turned and almost crashed directly into a scrawny white-haired man standing behind him. The man wore enormous round glasses that magnified his already wide grey eyes and wiry white eyebrows. Deep lines cracked his wan complexion; his lips were so thin they disappeared into the slash of his mouth. He was dressed in a dark suit and an immaculately pressed white shirt; his waxen hands bulged with blue veins and gripped the top of his walking stick.
“If you want to pawn an item I’m open tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, not a minute sooner.” His voice was clipped and high pitched. “But I must warn you now; I can’t pay much for anything.”
“I don’t want to pawn anything.” Haven turned back to the window and tapped his finger against the glass. “How much for that trumpet in the back?”
“What do you want a trumpet for?”
“I want to learn to play it,” Haven replied.
“You may purchase it for twenty dollars tomorrow.” The pawnbroker tipped his hat in Haven’s direction. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way to church. Good day to you, sir.”
The pawnbroker wobbled toward the curb.
“Wait!” Haven called. “All I can spare is ten dollars. Can’t you let me have it for that?”
“Twenty dollars, not a penny less,” the pawnbroker replied. “Tomorrow.”
“But I want it today!”
“I’m sorry, young man.” The pawnbroker turned and regarded Haven as though he was a lump of trash. “Even if I accepted your insulting offer, I don’t do business on a Sunday.”
“But I’m busy during the week,” Haven explained. “And I really need a trumpet. Can’t you please make an exception just this once?”
“Not for ten dollars,” the pawnbroker replied. “Business has been slow. Everyone wants to pawn something but nobody wants to buy.”
“I want to buy.” Haven turned and peered through the window. His eyes fell upon a dust encrusted Victrola beside a low shelf stocked with several phonograph albums. He could barely read the names printed on the spines, but they sounded familiar, especially the one that read “The Morrison Moss Quartet”. He tapped a fingertip against the smudged glass.
“Are those jazz records?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, they are.” The pawnbroker hobbled toward the shop.
“How much?”
The pawnbroker sighed, his forehead furrowed in thought.
“I’ll let you have the lot of them for your ten dollars,” he replied. “So long as I get that devil music out of my store. Tomorrow.”
Haven dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of wrinkled bills. He held them out to the pawnbroker who looked at them as though they were crawling with vermin.
“How about I give you ten dollars,” Haven suggested, “plus an extra dollar for your trouble and a pack of guitar strings for ten more cents if you give the lot to me now?”
The pawnbroker’s false teeth slid around inside his mouth as he mulled the offer. Sighing, he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a hoop jingling with several brass keys.
“Lord, forgive me for doing business on a Sunday.”
He raised his face to the sky as though beseeching the clouds for absolution.
The phonograph records were heavier than he expected. Haven heaved them on a dining room table and spread them across the tablecloth like a deck of cards, taking care not to tear their paper sheaths. He read the names written in their centres. They all sounded vaguely familiar; he was certain he had heard the names before but couldn’t recall if he had ever heard their music. He took inventory: The New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, Ethel Waters, Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton and The Morrison Moss Quartet. He decided to listen to them all.
He cranked the lever on the Victrola and placed the first disc on the green velvet turntable. After dropping the needle on the edge of the wobbling record he made himself comfortable. He rolled one of Jude’s ci
garettes, pulled up a chair and sat backwards on it before the machine. He propped his chin on the backrest as he smoked and listened to the strings of sound that emanated from the bobbing needle.
The music that filled the lodge made all the music he ever heard before sound vapid and soulless. The strings and drums virtually leapt from the disc; the voices felt as though they had come from the pinnacle of heaven; and when he heard Louis Armstrong’s trumpet play, the music filled a space in his heart he’d never realized had been empty. When the disc finished, he rose, cranked the lever and listened to the flip side. Once again he was amazed at what he heard. He played the albums one by one; each song lifted him to a higher plain of reverence. When he heard Bessie Smith sing “Down Hearted Blues” tears pierced his eyes. But it wasn’t until he placed the last disc on the turntable that he thought he had tumbled from the inner space of music. The song was “Walkin’ Shoes Blues” by The Morrison Moss Quartet. The voice that sang it was unmistakable. It was Wetherby:
“Baby’s gone away . . . got her walking shoes on . . . one last kiss, one good bye . . . and my baby, she is gone . . . baby’s got her walking shoes on . . . ”
The chorus was a string of nonsensical syllables followed by spurts from Wetherby’s trumpet.
“Shoo-be-bop-a-do . . . shoo-shoo-shoo-be-be-bop . . . shoo-be-bop-a-do . . . baby’s got her walking shoes on . . . ”
Haven couldn’t sit anymore. He stood before the Victrola and watched the needle bob over the rotating disc. Slowly, he sank to his knees before the machine. It was as though he was kneeling before a great god and that god was speaking to him. By the time the song finished he didn’t have the strength to rise again. He slumped lower until he lay prostrate on the floor, his heart thudding against the floorboards. The needle hissed against the groove in the centre of the disc until it floundered and wobbled to a stop.
Wetherby found Haven an hour later, lying in a daze on the floor.
“Get up, you,” Wetherby said. “What you doing down there on the floor, anyway?”
Haven didn’t move. His glazed eyes rolled toward Wetherby and stared at him as though he was beholding an angel. Wetherby tucked his trumpet under one arm and he leaned over Haven.
The Spoon Asylum Page 8