The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “Thank you.”

  Haven bounded down the porch steps, his shoes crunching the gravel along the path to the street. He knew without looking back that Gertie was standing in the doorway, watching him as though she was watching a ghost float across the lawn. He was never so relieved to get away from someone in his entire life.

  Miss Nokomis shook the thermometer and thrust it under Mabel’s tongue. Mabel lay in her bunk in the cabin she shared with Charlotte and Katherine, the quilt clutched under her chin, an ice bag melting on the crown of her head. A bucket of vomit sat on the floor next to Miss Nokomis’s feet. She pushed it closer toward the head of bed with the toe of her high heeled shoe and grimaced at the odour. Charlotte loitered in the doorway, aware of Mabel’s eyes drilling warily into her.

  “It doesn’t look like you have a fever.” Miss Nokomis plucked the thermometer from Mabel’s mouth and read the position of the mercury. She dragged the back of her hand across Mabel’s brow.

  “But my stomach really hurts,” Mabel groaned and scrunched deeper into the sheets.

  “I don’t know what could possibly be wrong with you,” Miss Nokomis said.

  “It’s probably from that Haven boy’s bad cooking,” Mabel replied.

  “That’s nonsense,” Miss Nokomis said. “We’ve all eaten the same food and I feel fine. How do you feel, Charlotte?”

  “I feel good.” Charlotte nodded until her glasses slid down her nose and she had to prop them back into position with the tip of her finger. “Never better in my life.”

  “See, it must be something else.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll feel better by tonight,” Mabel said. “I just need to rest.”

  “I can stay here with you if you like.” Miss Nokomis smoothed the cuff of the quilt across Mabel’s chest.

  “I’ll be all right.” Mabel’s eyes widened. “You go on to church with the others. Charlotte will be here with me.”

  “I can take care of her,” Charlotte agreed.

  “But I hate to leave you while you’re so ill.”

  “I know,” Charlotte replied. “she’s really . . . sick. But I bet she’ll be fine by tonight, won’t you Mabel?”

  “I think so,” Mabel agreed. “Go on to church and the picnic and have a good time. We’ll be fine.”

  “All right.” Miss Nokomis sighed. “I’d hate to disappoint the others. But I just want to take care of one thing before I go. I’ll be right back.”

  Miss Nokomis flounced out of the cabin waving the thermometer over her head like a magic wand. Mabel waited until she was safely out of earshot before sitting up in bed.

  “Don’t tell.” Mabel smiled coyly at Charlotte and patted her index finger in front of her lips.

  She plucked a feather from the headdress that lay on the night stand beside her amulet of Wabbasso. Leaning over the edge of the bunk, she opened wide and guided the tip of the feather down her throat. Yellow vomit splattered into the bucket on the floor.

  “You’re disgusting!” Charlotte wrinkled her nose.

  Mabel sat up and wiped her glistening lips with the back of her hand.

  “I have to convince the old bird that I’m really sick.” She smiled and tucked the feather under her pillow. “It’s our little secret, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Miss Nokomis returned carrying a spoon and a brown vial of cod liver oil.

  “She threw up again,” Charlotte told her.

  “Oh dear!” Miss Nokomis sat on the edge of the bed and twisted the cap off the vial.

  “What’s that?” Charlotte huddled under the quilt.

  “The best thing I have for a queasy tummy.” Miss Nokomis measured the oil into the spoon. “Cod liver oil. Open up.”

  “I think I’m feeling better now.”

  “That’s good.” Miss Nokomis carefully brought the spoon to Mabel’s lips. “But take this anyway. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  She shoved the spoon into her mouth before Mabel could protest further. Mabel’s lips buckled around the spoon and she grimaced as she swallowed.

  “That will straighten things out for you in no time.” Miss Nokomis rose and screwed the cap back on the vial. “I have to be going now. I want you to stay in bed while I’m gone. If you need anything, ask Charlotte to get it for you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Nokomis.” Mabel made a face as she licked the residue from her lips.

  “I’ll check on you when I get back.”

  Miss Nokomis patted Mabel’s arm before turning to leave.

  “Take care of her for me,” she told Charlotte before opening the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “I will.”

  Charlotte wandered to the window and watched Miss Nokomis board the bus that idled by the front gate. Mabel sat up in bed and covered her mouth with both hands, her cheeks bulging like balloons.

  “Now I think I’m going to be sick for real,” she croaked.

  “It serves you right, you liar,” Charlotte replied.

  “Are they gone?”

  “They’re gone.” Charlotte turned from the window. The bus lumbered through the gate, brumes of dust spewing from its rear wheels.

  “Good!” Mabel tossed the quilt off her legs and leapt from the bed. “Let’s go out and have some fun!”

  She pulled her nightgown over her head to reveal the navy blue bathing suit beneath.

  “What do you want to do?” Charlotte followed her out the door.

  “That depends. What goes on around here when we’re all in church?” Mabel scanned the clearing.

  “We have wild drinking parties with the boys from Camp Hiawatha,” Charlotte snickered. “What do you think we do?”

  “I wonder where he is.” Mabel stepped into the lake and gazed out at the sun dappled water. Clouds of silt swirled around her feet.

  “Who?”

  “Haven.”

  “He’s probably inside polishing the silverware with Jude,” Charlotte replied. “Something I should be doing with them.”

  “You’re supposed to take care of me today.”

  “You can take care of yourself.” Charlotte turned away and headed toward the lodge.

  Brassy music crackled the air. Charlotte paused to listen. She smiled.

  “There he is,” she said. “Sounds like he’s getting better.”

  “He’s been tootling that thing night and day.” Mabel glowered in the direction of the music.

  “He needs to practice,” Charlotte replied. “I think he sounds pretty good. Mr. Wetherby has been teaching him jazz.”

  “Maybe he should take a little break.” Mabel waved her over. “Come on, follow me.”

  “What are you up to?” Charlotte demanded as Mabel led her through the brush that separated the camp from the granite ledge.

  Haven’s trumpet grew louder. They climbed up the side of the boulder, their bare toes gripping the clefts in the rock. Pushing aside the brush, they peered over the edge and skulked among the foliage, careful to remain hidden.

  Haven sat with his back to them, his bare shoulders burnished from the sun. Water meandered in rivulets down his back, filling the hollow ridge of his spine. His wet clothes were spread around him to dry. He held his head high and stiff as he fingered the keys on the trumpet where a red tassel swayed in time to each note. Whenever he made a mistake he pulled the mouthpiece from his lips, cursed softly under his breath and tried again until he got it right.

  “He’s turning shy,” Mabel whispered and covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. “He’s got his boxer shorts on this time.”

  “I think he learned the hard way after what happened to him,” Charlotte replied.

  “It was pretty funny.” Mabel smirked. “One of the best pranks I’d ever played.”

  “That was you?”

  “Not exactly.” Mabel shook her head. “I got some of the Puk-wudjies to take his clothes. But I was the one who put it up the flagpole.”

  “You’re mean!�
�� Charlotte hissed. “He almost got fired for that.”

  “So what?”

  “You really should be nicer to him,” Charlotte said. “He really likes you.”

  “I know.” Mabel nodded. “Everybody can see the way he looks at me. Can you blame him?”

  Mabel flounced her hair, nearly losing her hold on the edge of the rock. Charlotte grabbed her arm so she wouldn’t fall.

  “I have to go,” she said and descended until she was low enough to hop to the ground. A twig snapped and they both froze. Haven paused, lowering the trumpet into his lap.

  “Don’t you want to stay and have some fun with him?” Mabel whispered after Haven lifted his trumpet and resumed the song.

  “No!” Charlotte turned and sprang back into the brush, not caring any more if Haven heard them.

  Mabel sighed and turned her attention back to Haven. Charlotte could be such a prude sometimes; she wondered if Charlotte harboured any sense of adventure in that skinny bespectacled body of hers. She leaned on her hands and watched Haven as he finished his song and reverently placed his trumpet back in its case. The sun had nearly dried the water on his back and she wondered how it would feel to trace her fingers along his moist skin.

  “I know you’re there,” Haven said without turning to look at her. “I heard you two whispering behind my back.”

  Mabel was not surprised.

  “We didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she said. “We just heard your music and decided to come and listen.”

  “Why aren’t you in church?” Haven asked.

  “I’m sick.”

  Haven turned and looked her over, his eyes swelling with adoration. She wore a deep blue bathing suit, almost black, with tiny white and yellow daisies ringing the bodice over her taut cleavage. She scrambled over the edge. He offered her his hand and she hoisted herself to her feet.

  “You don’t look very sick to me,” he laughed.

  “I’m much better now.” Mabel smiled. She sat beside him on the gritty stone, crossing her shapely legs under her.

  “Then you should go to church.”

  “I’d rather stay here and keep you company.”

  Haven blushed until his chest and shoulders blazed crimson under the sun.

  “I don’t think you should be here,” he said. “Miss Nokomis warned me to stay away from you girls.”

  “She’s not here,” Mabel replied. “Just me and Charlotte. And Charlotte’s an old poop. She never wants to do anything fun.”

  “Yes she does. She sings along with me and Jude all the time.”

  “That’s not the kind of fun I like to have,” Mabel purred and leaned closer toward Haven. “Do you like to have fun, Haven?”

  A bulge swelled in Haven’s throat. Sweat beaded his body like dew. He leaned backward but Mabel pressed closer until he had to support his weight with his hands.

  “What kind of fun?” He found it difficult to speak.

  Giggling, Mabel leaned forward. She planted a light kiss directly on his mouth. Every nerve in Haven’s body seized in place. So many sleepless nights he’d yearned for a moment like this. Wetherby wheezed in his sleep from across the room and Jude, a restless sleeper, turned and muttered, his arms often flopping across Haven’s chest; other nights he bolted awake, screaming in response to some nightmare. Nights like that Haven could think of only two things: music and Mabel, and the two daydreams often intertwined. But he never imagined it could be like this, with lake water drizzling down his back and his heart pinwheeling against his breastbone.

  Mabel pulled away, but his lips followed hers. He had never kissed a girl before and now that he’d started, he never wanted it to stop. He could drink in her sweet breath forever and Miss Nokomis be damned.

  “Easy there, big boy.” Mabel’s mouth smiled against his.

  Big boy! She called him Big Boy!

  “Want to come for a swim with me?” Mabel’s voice held a teasing lilt.

  At that point Haven would have agreed to follow her to the edge of the earth and gladly plunge into oblivion if that was what she wanted. He nodded; the tightness in his throat and loins made it impossible for him to speak.

  Giggling, Mabel sprang to her feet and dropped over the edge of the boulder into the lake. Water splashed upward like a fountain. Haven tumbled head first after her, savouring the coolness of the murky water against his scalding skin. Laughing, Mabel surged from the water like a siren, her golden hair wet and plastered against head, water spurting from her pucker mouth. She playfully splashed Haven; he laughed and splashed her back, his whole body swarming with joy.

  “Follow me!” she called and swam in long languid strokes down the lake.

  Haven was so enraptured he didn’t notice how far they had swum until he lunged under the surface and re-emerged beside the camp’s rowboat, tethered by a frayed slimy cord to the dock. He shook the water from his eyes and sputtered.

  Charlotte and Wetherby stood on the shore staring down at him. Mabel was nowhere in sight; a trail of wet footprints led up to her cabin. Haven’s heart dropped like a bird dead in mid-flight. He twisted his knuckles into his eyes to clear his vision and scampered through the muck toward the shore, splashing brown water in all directions. Charlotte glared at him, her fists at her narrow hips, and shook her head in distaste.

  “And what were you doing out there on the rock?” she demanded.

  “What’s it to you?” Haven shot back, indignant. Whatever happened between him and Mabel was no concern of hers.

  “Mabel’s sick today and it’s my responsibility to care for her.” Her eyes followed him as he trudged toward the lodge.

  “She’s fine,” Haven called without looking back at Charlotte. “Go check on her yourself.”

  Grunting, Charlotte tightly crossed her arms over her chest and stomped toward her cabin, fumes of outrage wafting from her like wisps of smoke.

  Wetherby grabbed Haven’s elbow before he could ascend the steps.

  “Where’s your trumpet?” he asked.

  Haven stopped short. He had forgotten all about it.

  “I think I left it out on the rock.”

  A hardness Haven had never seen before glazed Wetherby’s dark eyes. His fingers burrowed painfully in the flesh of Haven’s arm.

  “You go get it now!” Wetherby said. “No good jazzman ever leave his horn behind. That horn is as much a part of you as your heart or your brain or your dick. Would you ever leave them behind?”

  “No, I guess not.” Haven humbly lowered his eyes to the ground. A queue of ants trickled through the gravel. He resisted the urge to crush them under his bare foot.

  “Then you go get it now!” Wetherby shoved Haven toward the lake. “And when you get back I want to talk to you.”

  The sun had warmed the leather case until it burned against Haven’s hand. He bundled his damp clothes into a loose knot he tucked under one arm and carried everything back to the camp. All the charm and enchantment that had encircled the boulder only moments before had evaporated into the sultry summer sky.

  Wetherby sat waiting for him at one of the tables in the dining room, cradling a glass of water on the tablecloth before him. Haven blinked and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. The oscillating fan whirred softly in the corner, ruffling a stack of neatly folded napkins on a table where the tray of silverware awaited its weekly polish.

  “Sit down.” Wetherby patted the chair beside his.

  Haven put his trumpet on the table and pulled his shirt over his head before sitting.

  “I’m sorry for forgetting my trumpet,” he said contritely. “It won’t happen again. I just got a little . . . distracted, that’s all.”

  Wetherby chuckled and swigged from his glass, beads of water oozing from between his fingers.

  “That what you call it?”

  Haven stared at his hands; he didn’t know what to say.

  “Now look, here, boy.” Wetherby continued and placed his half-empty glass on the table. “Ev
eryone can see that you been sweet on Miss Mabel since the day you got here. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. After all, you is a man and you got your needs, just like everyone else. But that girl, I’m fraid to say, just ain’t right for you.”

  “How would you know?” Haven shot back, incensed that Wetherby could make such outlandish assumptions about him and Mabel.

  “Now don’t you get angry with me,” Wetherby replied. “I just tell you the truth so you don’t get hurt. She the kind of girl who’s way above folks like us. She come from a rich home and go to some fancy school. She so privilege I ain’t be surprised if she pisses perfume. She ain’t right for the likes of us. The jazzmen.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think I do,” Wetherby said. “I been playing the clubs long enough to know. We just playthings to them rich white ladies. They don’t even care so much about the music. That’s all window dressing to them.”

  “You’re wrong,” Haven seethed. “It may have been true down in Detroit, but here it’s different. Mabel really likes me. She proved it to me out on the rock.”

  “You want to be a jazzman, don’t you?” Wetherby asked.

  “More than anything else in the world.”

  “Then you best listen to me.” Wetherby took another sip from his glass. “There is more to being a jazzman than just the music. It’s a whole way of thinking, a whole way of life. And gals like her are a part of it.”

  “Mabel would never do anything to hurt me,” Haven declared.

  “I didn’t think you’d believe me.” Wetherby shook his head sadly. “But I thought I’d at least give it a try. I hate to see you get your heart stomped on.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Haven struggled to control his fury. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I just know what it’s like to be lonely for some female companionship.” Wetherby’s eyelids slipped halfway down his eyes. “Sure gets lonely for a man. I give anything just to have a fine lady my own age to talk to once in a while. Nothing else, just to talk.”

  “Is it really that hard on you?”

  “Not too many ladies my age around these parts.” Wetherby gazed mournfully around the room. “I don’t get out to town much. Too long a walk for an old broken buck like me.”