“I think I can help you,” Haven replied. “As long as you promise not to discuss me and Mabel again.”
“I’d be much obliged.”
A shallow smile creased Haven’s jaw. He leaned back in his chair and caressed the sun-warmed leather case. He knew just how to alleviate Wetherby’s solitude.
CHAPTER 9
IT WAS SO UNLIKE ELEANOR to visit midweek. The thought that there may be some sort of emergency at the camp flickered through Bess’s mind as she tethered the last wet sheet, bleached white and stinking of lye, to the clothesline in back of the house. Wandering chickens pecked lethargically in the gravel around her feet and stared up at her with eyes like black bubbles. She pushed past them as she rounded the corner, kicking over the wicker basket that had held the day’s wash. The bus screeched as it lurched to a stop before the gate, the cooling engine ticking incidentally beneath the hood.
“My God, Eleanor!” Bess ran toward the bus, waving her scrawny arms over her head. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
The door to the bus swung open like a broken wing. Haven, dressed in greasy kitchen whites, stepped down into the dust. A heavy set black man, whom she recalled seeing in Davisville a few times, lumbered behind him.
“Haven?” Bess gasped, the panic rising higher in her heart. “What are you doing here? Has something happened at the camp?”
“No, everything’s fine.” Haven smiled. Bess noticed how the sun had dappled his complexion over the course of the summer and streaked his hair with shots of gold. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I wanted you to meet someone.” Haven hooked his arm through Wetherby’s elbow and guided him through the gate. “This is my friend, Mr. Wetherby Moss. This is my grandma, Mr. Wetherby. Mrs. Bess Washburn.”
Wetherby hesitated at the gate. He removed his hat and clutched it against his chest. His smile was so genuine and pure it spread a similar smile across Bess’s own thin tight lips, releasing the panic that constricted her chest. He had the softest, roundest dun eyes she had ever seen.
“How do you do, ma’am.” Wetherby dipped his head politely in Bess’s direction.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wetherby,” Bess replied softly.
“I thought you two could visit together for a while,” Haven said. “I know you don’t get much company out here and there’s no one Wetherby’s age at the camp he can talk to.”
“Jude’s my son,” Wetherby added.
“Of course,” Bess replied. “I should have seen the resemblance. Please, Mr. Wetherby. Come in and rest awhile. I have some cool lemonade in the icebox.”
Wetherby frowned and shuffled his dusty shoes against the path.
“I don’t know if that would exactly be proper,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Bess huffed and lifted her pointed nose higher in the air. “I’m not about to deny a thirsty man a cool drink on such a hot day over some silly sense of propriety. Please, Mr. Wetherby, do come in and refresh yourself.”
“Go on,” Haven coaxed. “Have a nice visit with Bess. I’ll come back for you later.”
Wetherby grinned until the dent in his upper lip stretched and disappeared beneath his moustache.
“Well, I sure could use a little something to wet my whistle,” he agreed. “That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Bess.”
“I have to get going.” Haven patted Wetherby’s shoulder before boarding the bus. “Jude wants me to finish peeling the potatoes for supper and set the tables. I’ll come back for you after the girls finish their tea.”
“Give my regards to El . . . I mean Miss Nokomis,” Bess called after him as he revved the engine.
Haven waved back at them as the bus swerved round in the dust and jostled back down the road, coating Wetherby’s back with a fine layer of silt. Laughing, he placed his bowler back on his head.
“That boy is sure something,” he said. “You must be mighty proud of him.”
“He breaks my heart sometimes.” Bess sighed and turned toward the house. “Please come in.”
It was cooler inside the house. Wetherby settled into a settee in the parlour and gazed around at all the trappings and paraphernalia that regaled her home. He recognized the faces in the photographs. An ornate mantel clock ticked tiredly over the fireplace. The brass horn of the Victrola gaped at him like a yawning mouth. Potted palms grouped together in one corner and jabbed the air with their spiky fronds. It had been a long time since Wetherby had been a guest in a house that was both homey and austere. He could understand why Eleanor would want to leave it.
Bess swooped into the parlour carrying two glasses of lemonade.
“You must excuse my appearance,” she said after placing the glasses on a silver tray on the occasional table. She tugged at the apron strings behind her back. “I was just doing the wash when you arrived and I wasn’t expecting any company today.”
“I think you look mighty fine.” Wetherby grinned and lifted his glass to his lips. He took a long deep drink of the lemonade. “And this lemonade is mighty fine, too.”
Bess tossed her apron aside and sat on the couch opposite him, tucking the hem of her dress around her bony knees. She hadn’t felt as awkward and demure since her late husband courted her back in the early 1900s.
“I make it myself, fresh every day,” she replied and silently chastised herself for having nothing more substantial to discuss than her recipe for lemonade. This was obviously a man who had seen the world. She had never ventured further than fifty miles from her birthplace.
“It shows.”
Bess hesitated, afraid to broach the subject that had filled her mind since she first poured the lemonade. Liquor was sparse in Davisville. Those who did imbibe were often shunned and thought of as little more than the vagrants who rode into town on the trains. Unless Dr. Ellison recommended a glass of brandy for medicinal reasons, there was no excuse for anyone to partake of what the ladies at church called “the devil’s brew”. There were even been rumours circulating through town that a few of the more unscrupulous had smuggled wine across the border for the Americans.
“You look like someone who’s been around,” she began. “Tell me, Mr. Wetherby, are you from the States?” “Sure am,” Wetherby replied. “Born down in Georgia before moving up to Chicago in my teens, then lived in Detroit till about four years ago.”
“And what has brought you to our little community?”
“Had a bit of trouble in town.” Wetherby’s smile masked his coyness. “Thought we’d settle someplace where it be nice and quiet.”
“You must have experienced all sorts of adventures in big cities like that,” Bess said.
“Some,” Wetherby shrugged.
“Have you ever sampled a drop or two of brandy?” Bess’s nerves tightened as she spoke.
Wetherby leaned back against the cushions and laughed until his round belly bobbed like a bouncy ball.
“Lordy, woman, I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
“Good!” Bess sprung from the couch and opened the door of a hutch that housed an assortment of ornamental vials and vases. She pulled out a crystal decanter with thick brown fluid sloshing inside. “I keep a bottle of brandy handy. Just in case I take ill, mind you.”
“Of course.” Wetherby raised his glass of lemonade so Bess could fill the remainder with brandy. She topped off her own glass before settling back on the couch.
“If the girls from church could see me now,” she said. “Entertaining a coloured man in my home with liquor. Why, they would faint from shock.”
“We’ll just keep this our little secret.” Wetherby raised his glass in a toast. “To your good health, Mrs. Washburn. I sure do appreciate your hospitality.”
“To your good health, too, Mr. Wetherby.”
They clinked glasses and drank deeply. The spiked lemonade sent a river of warmth flowing down Bess’s throat. Her eyes fell upon the Victrola in the corner. It had been so long since she had last used it a fine film of dust had settled upon
the lid and a gossamer web draped between the horn and the crank.
“Do you enjoy music, Mr. Wetherby?” she asked.
“I’ve been known to play a tune or two in my day,” Wetherby admitted.
“I’ve had this old Victor talking machine for years.” Bess pointed with her glass. “I’ve hardly every used it. Would you mind if I indulged my senses a little bit?”
“And what sort of records do you have?”
“I’m not really sure.” Bess rose and inspected a row of albums on the bookshelf. “Dance music mostly I think. My daughter and son-in-law used to go dancing every night and then would go out and buy the music of their favourite bands. My other daughter was quite precocious and would play them late at night after everyone was asleep. Sometimes my son-in-law would come down and listen with her . . . ”
Bess’s voice trailed away as the memories of those evenings took hold of her heart. A hand weighed down her shoulder and squeezed.
“Have you a fox trot?” Wetherby asked behind her.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you let me check and see what you’ve got.” Wetherby bent to examine the records. “I’ll pick out something nice, something we can dance to.”
“That would be fine, Mr. Wetherby. Thank you.”
Jude pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, a platter of gnawed sandwiches in his arms. Crusts of buttered bread and slivers of ham and cucumber lay in crooked crescents on the plate. It was evident the girls didn’t care much for crusts on their sandwiches, but Jude couldn’t be bothered to slice them off. If having to eat around the crusts of their cucumber sandwiches during afternoon tea was the worst thing that ever happened to them during their stay at camp, then they were very privileged indeed. Jude slid the leftovers into the tin drum they used as a composter and placed the platter on the counter beside the sink where Haven swished hot sudsy water through teacups and drinking glasses. Steam rose from the foam and greased his face so Haven had to wipe his dripping brow with his sleeve. He hummed softly under his breath, a tune Jude had conjured up on his old harmonica; all they needed now was some lyrics.
“I wonder where Pa is at,” Jude said and reached into the cabinet where he stashed his tobacco. “He didn’t come in to eat.”
“I took him out this afternoon,” Haven replied and stacked the last of the teacups on the drain board.
“Where to?”
“To visit with my grandma out by the tracks,” Haven said.
“What?” Jude’s hand tightened around the pouch of tobacco. Haven looked at him as though he was daft.
“He looked lonely.” Haven was indignant at having to explain himself to Jude. “He told me he’d do anything for a little female companionship. So I thought I’d introduce him to my grandma. They’re about the same age, but I don’t think they’ve got much in common . . . ”
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Jude whipped his tobacco pouch across the room. It hit the far wall and burst into a tangled amber cloud before sliding to the floor.
“What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is a man like him ain’t got no business being out with an old white lady!” Jude’s lips tightened around his words. “Lordy, boy! Sometimes I think you ain’t got any more sense than them salamanders that make the girls scream when they go digging up them rocks by the river.”
“You’re the one not making any sense!” Haven retorted. “There’s no harm in them meeting.”
“There going to be harm to you if you don’t show me where he at!” Jude grabbed Haven by the arm and shoved him toward the door, yanking his apron off with his free hand.
Haven stumbled through the dining room. The tables were still littered with crumbs, rumpled napkins and stained tablecloths; chairs had been pulled away from the tables and left in the aisles. He almost crashed into one when Jude grabbed him at the base of the neck and thrust him toward the door. Haven shrugged to release his grasp, but Jude held firm.
“What about this mess?” Haven asked.
“Leave it.”
“Let me go!”
“When I get you on that bus, then I let you go,” Jude snarled like a cornered animal. “Now you go take me to Pa right now, before I snap your scrawny neck in two.”
Haven broke free and twirled to face Jude, raising his fists up defensively. If he hadn’t been so fond of Jude, he would have pummelled him in the jaw.
“What’s gotten into you?” Haven shouted. “This isn’t that big of a deal.”
“It’s a big deal.” Jude panted until Haven tasted his bitter breath blow across his face. “Bigger than you think. You white city boys just don’t know. You don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand.”
“Yes there is.” Jude pointed toward the bus. “Now you take me to Pa right now. Please. I got to get him home.”
Sighing, Haven boarded the bus, astounded at Jude’s overreaction to something so trivial.
Bess hadn’t felt so insouciant and free since the early years of her marriage. If she closed her eyes and leaned her head against Wetherby’s strong solid shoulder, she could swear she was a young woman again, dancing with her suitor on Saturday night at the Davisville Dance Pavilion. The memories of her youth pinched her soul; she opened her eyes and gazed up at Wetherby. Her mind swirled from the liquor. The disc on the turntable had run its course and a steady crackle hissed from the horn.
He had taught her a dance called the Fox Trot, a jig she had often seen her daughters do, but thought it undignified for a woman of her age. Before that he had taught her to Charleston; they laughed as she knocked her knobby knees together and struggled to keep up with him. He was incredibly light on his feet for such a big man. His entire being abounded with rhythm as they sashayed together across the faded rug, taking care not to trip over the frayed tassels in the corners. When he sang along to the records, she was reminded of a song she had heard on the radio but couldn’t quite place.
“You’re a divine dancer, Mr. Wetherby,” Bess said and stepped away from him, though she yearned to stay in his arms.
“You ain’t so bad yourself, Mrs. Washburn.” Wetherby smiled.
“Please, call me Bess.”
“That would be mighty fine, Bess.” Wetherby raised his empty glass. “Mind if I trouble you for another spot? All this dancing sure works up a thirst.”
“I was just thinking the same thing myself.” Bess hadn’t giggled so bashfully since her early teens. She lifted the decanter toward Wetherby’s glass.
Jude barged through the front door uninvited; Haven was at his heels, anxiously peering over Jude’s shoulders. Startled, Bess gasped, nearly dropping the decanter and sloshing brandy onto the rug. Jude’s dark eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other until they fell upon Wetherby, who stood gaping at him, his empty glass still in his hand.
“Judy!” he smiled. “What brings you all the way out here?”
“I ought to be asking you the same thing.” Jude scowled and pointed at the Victrola where the disc still wobbled on the turntable.
“Bess here invited me in for a drink,” Wetherby explained, “then we got to dancing. She ain’t half bad once she gets going.”
“Jesus, Pa!” Jude slapped his forehead with the base of his palm. “You ought to know better than that! Ain’t you learned nothing?”
“It’s my fault,” Haven cut in. “I didn’t think there’d be any harm in you two getting together.”
“Well, there is harm.” Jude snatched the glass from Wetherby’s hand and sniffed the rim. “Drinking too, Pa? What’s come upon you?”
“We was just having a little fun, Judy,” Wetherby said. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
“Can someone please explain what’s going on?” Bess demanded. She surreptitiously slipped the decanter back into the hutch.
“My pa ain’t supposed to be seen with the likes of a nice lady like you,” Jude said and pointed toward the door. “I’m taki
ng him home. Party’s over.”
“I’m sorry.” Haven sighed, shaking his head. “I really thought you would like to spend time with someone your own age.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Bess replied. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“It was sure nice meeting you, Bess.” Wetherby gathered her hands in his own and bowed in her direction. “You is a fine lady. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“I enjoyed myself,” Bess replied. “I hope we can get together sometime again soon.”
“That would be mighty fine.”
“No it won’t!” Jude snatched Wetherby’s hat from the settee and shoved it on his head. “Come on, Pa. Time to go.”
It was a solemn drive back to camp. Jude drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened into creamy nubs against his fingers. No one spoke. Wetherby stared out the window, his thick mouth drawn into a frown. Haven watched him and wondered what could be so wrong with two lonely souls sharing a drink and a dance.
Jude spoke little the rest of the evening and refused to look Haven directly in the eye. They performed their chores mechanically in the kitchen, taking care not to bump into one another as they worked, speaking in overly polite tones and only when it was necessary. Haven tried to lighten the mood by humming the song Jude had composed, hoping it would rekindle the banter and camaraderie that had filled the kitchen only hours before. Jude smirked and turned his back to him, a gleaming stream of sweat trickling from the back of his woolly black hair.
The girls retired shortly after the supper dishes were washed and wiped; Miss Nokomis planned an early morning fishing excursion and they were to rise at dawn. Haven and Jude were expected to pack them a picnic breakfast and have it ready by the canoes before they left. No one was the least bit tired. The cabins rang like bells with girlish chatter, the windows glowing yellow as flickering fireflies in the twilight. Haven couldn’t stand being in the kitchen with Jude any longer. He grabbed his trumpet and slumped in the cane chair on the porch, preferring to listen to the inane laughter from the cabins than the stinging silence of kitchen. He raised the mouthpiece to his lips and played a slow, jerky rendition of “Am I Blue” that Wetherby had taught him. He stared out at the lake; its surface was as flat and shiny as a slab of mirror, reflecting the pale stars that had just begun their long slow illumination above the sun stained clouds.
The Spoon Asylum Page 11