The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  I contemplated abandoning the truck and walking across. The half-rotted ropes and splintery wooden slats couldn’t possibly support the weight of the truck. Then Pa reminded me of all the times the bootleggers crossed it, weighted down with clanking bottles of hooch. I put the truck into gear and we crossed.

  I don’t know how we made it. All I remember of crossing the bridge was looking down into the churning muddy waters below, moonlight dancing off the little ripples like the sequins in Miss Charlene’s dress. The bridge swayed and I felt like some sort of night bird, an owl perhaps, gliding through the hot August air.

  It was dawn when I parked the truck in a field of tall grass burnished to bronze by the summer heat. A plump garnet sun rose lazily over the horizon as though it had all the time in the world to shine. Pa had fallen asleep once we had crossed the border. He snored loudly and his round brown head lolled against the back of his seat. The truck’s abrupt stop awakened him and he ran his tongue across his heavy lips, blinking awake.

  “Did we make it?” he asked and squinted across the flowing grass where tiny insects darted across the tips.

  “Yes, Pa. We made it,” I replied and leaned my forehead into the steering wheel. I’d never been so exhausted in all my life.

  Pa climbed down from the truck, his trumpet in hand. I didn’t have the energy to stop him. I peered through the smudged windshield and watched. He stood waist deep in the dewy grass. He raised his trumpet to his lips and played Miss Charlene’s eulogy to the rising sun.

  No one could speak for several minutes. The silence that descended around them magnified the chirp of hidden crickets and the lap of water against the shore until the sound became a deafening boom. Jude’s eyes crinkled shut. He covered his face with his hands; his shoulders trembled. Haven looked from Charlotte to Marcus who stared at one another as though beseeching the other to speak first.

  “How awful for you,” Charlotte said. She untangled her legs from her arms and leaned toward Jude.

  “How long has it been?” Haven asked.

  “About four years now,” Marcus replied. “They left in August of twenty-nine. That’s when I met them. They ditched Sass’s truck by the side of the road and rode the rails north, hauling a suitcase full of instruments.”

  Charlotte touched Jude’s shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t move away. She leaned closer until she slipped from her chair. Crouching before him, she cradled his chin in both her hands.

  “Jude, look at me,” she said. He made no move to uncover his face so she gently pried his hands away. His eyes fluttered open, oiled with tears. “You’re safe now, Jude. No one will hurt you here.”

  “You’re mighty kind, Miss Charlotte,” Jude choked on his words.

  “This is your sanctuary,” she said. “You’re surrounded by friends. We won’t ever let anything happen to you.”

  A tear slipped from the corner of Jude’s eye and Charlotte wiped it away with the ball of her thumb. Haven glanced away. The affection between them was palpable. His mind churned with questions.

  “Couldn’t you go to the police?” he asked. “Tell them your side of the story, tell them what really happened?”

  Jude snickered and the tears hardened in his eyes.

  “The fuzz in them days was in cahoots with bootleggers,” he said. “They’d never believe a couple of coloured folks like us. Why, they’d be right there with Adams and his goons, holding the noose for them.”

  “There must have been some place you could have gone to for help . . . ”

  “No! There ain’t no place, not in Detroit.” Jude shook his head until Charlotte lowered her hands. “You just don’t understand. You don’t know what it feels like to be cut out from everybody else. None of you understands. Except maybe you, Miss Charlotte.”

  “I understand.” Charlotte nodded.

  “I want you to have something.” Jude rose, stretching the kinks out of his back and shoulders. He inhaled deeply, building strength on the fresh air that filled his lungs.

  “Where’s he going?” Haven asked after Jude scurried from the porch and disappeared into night, but Marcus just shrugged.

  Jude returned carrying a long leather case by the handle in one hand and a makeshift guitar in the other. He placed them on the floor beside the lantern and opened the lid of the case.

  “This belonged to Sass,” he said as he lifted the clarinet from its bed of scarlet velvet. “It was still in his truck when we crossed the bridge.”

  He carried the clarinet as though he was holding the bones of his long dead friend. The brass keys sparkled in the lantern’s glow, the reed jutted out from the mouthpiece like a lover’s lips awaiting a kiss. He slowly passed it to Charlotte.

  “I want you to have this, Miss Charlotte,” he said.

  “I couldn’t take this from you.” Charlotte backed away. “It’s all you have left to remember your friend.”

  “Please, take it,” Jude urged. “Me and Pa can’t play it and we’d been lugging it around for years. It needs a good home with someone who knows how to use it. Take it.”

  Charlotte reluctantly accepted the clarinet. She inspected the keys, flipping them up and down to ensure they still worked, and blew dust from the horn.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I promise I’ll take care of it.”

  “Play something for us,” Marcus goaded.

  “I haven’t played in several months,” Charlotte said. “I might be a little rusty.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Sighing, Charlotte rose and placed the reed against her lower lip. She gathered in a deep breath and blew “Amazing Grace” through the clarinet. Haven, Marcus and Jude watched her, each ensconced in his own thoughts. The lantern’s light reflected off her glasses and reminded Haven of some sort of dark bird warbling hymns in the night. He glanced at Jude who sat watching her and was startled by his expression. He had no idea Jude felt so deeply for Charlotte. When she finished, she lowered the clarinet and looked to them for a reaction. Jude stood and clapped his hands and Haven and Marcus joined him.

  “That was perfect,” Marcus said. “You’re not rusty at all.”

  “You’re good enough to play in any jazz band you please,” Jude agreed.

  Charlotte grinned and bashfully lowered her gaze.

  “You really think so?”

  “You making Sass proud,” Jude replied and gazed at the stars that mottled the sky. “Wherever he might be.”

  Marcus pulled his harmonica from his breast pocket and slid his lips across it, blowing a whoosh of notes from the holes. It was his way of warming up his mouth for a performance.

  “Pick up your guitar and get your trumpet, boys,” he said. “Now that we’ve got ourselves a clarinet, we can really blow some jazz.”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.” Haven was relieved to finally practice his horn again.

  Jude balanced the guitar on his knee and strummed a few warm-up notes.

  “Thanks to you for getting me some strings.” He winked at Haven.

  It was nearly dawn before Marcus yanked the cord on the outboard motor and headed back to Camp Hiawatha to feed the horses. Charlotte had retired hours earlier, the clarinet case swinging in her hand as she trudged up the path to her cabin with the sound of Haven’s trumpet behind her. Jude and Haven, his lips burning from playing for so long, headed into the kitchen. They had almost forgotten to pack the picnic breakfast for the girls’ fishing trip.

  CHAPTER 11

  RAINDROPS GREY AS DISHWATER CLUNG to the window screens like honey in a comb. The rain barrel beneath the eavestrough had long since overflowed its brim and water gushed down the staves. Rain fell hard over the lake and puckered its surface. The canoes had been turned over so as not to fill with rain and the rowboat covered with a canvas blanket. The pines dripped as though they were weeping. Rivulets of muddy water stumbled into the lake. The girls of Camp Nokomis sprinted toward the lodge, their backs hunched and their heads covered wi
th whatever scarves or blankets they had brought from home.

  Haven lit a fire in the hearth of the massive stone fireplace to keep the clammy chill at bay, adding more logs to it as it burned, and sending streams of sparks spiralling up the flue. The girls took their places in chairs he had arranged in a semicircle around the Victrola. Most wrapped themselves in woollen shawls and sweaters, shivering despite the heat from the fireplace. Miss Nokomis, draped in a beaded leather shawl, crouched by the crate and sifted through a pile of phonograph records.

  “I have some good news, ladies,” she said, grimacing when she came across one of Haven’s Jelly Roll Morton records. “Now how did this get in here?”

  “What’s the good news?” Katherine asked. The other girls tittered with anticipation.

  Miss Nokomis rose, a pile of discs clutched to her breast.

  “Camp Hiawatha has invited all young ladies who are not Puk-wudgies to attend a dance they are holding in our honour at their camp this Saturday night.”

  The girls erupted into flurries of laughter and excited chatter. A few squealed and nudged their companions. Madeleine and her clique groaned, disappointment crumpling their faces. Charlotte’s mouth dropped open and Mabel, who Haven watched intently whenever she was near, threw her hands up and laughed. She would be the belle of the ball and everyone knew it. The thought pinned Haven’s heart to his gut. Margaret began to chatter about the dress she planned to wear.

  “Now ladies, please settle down,” Miss Nokomis called; the girls slowly quieted. Haven leaned against the fireplace; the rough stone prickled his cheek, the poker swung in his hand.

  “That’s not fair!” Agnes, a little dark haired girl about Madeleine’s age piped up. “Why do they get to go and we don’t?”

  “Because you’re Puk-wudgies,” Miss Nokomis’s voice took on a softer lilt whenever she spoke to one of the younger girls. “You are still too young to attend such functions.”

  “No we’re not!” Agnes sat back and pouted, crossing her arms over the pink knit blanket she had brought from home.

  “We’re old enough to dance!” Madeleine agreed.

  “Certainly you are,” Miss Nokomis replied. “But the fact remains that the gentlemen of Camp Hiawatha have invited us. They are our hosts and we must respect their wishes.”

  The Puk-wudgies groaned, knowing it was pointless to enter a debate with Miss Nokomis. Her word was law carved in stone.

  Haven sighed and prodded a sizzling log with the poker. He knew all too well how it felt to be excluded. The heat seared his face as though he suffered a fever.

  “Since it’s raining today, I want to take this opportunity to teach you ladies how to dance,” Miss Nokomis continued.

  “I already know,” Mabel said, raising her voice over the din of excited chatter. Haven peered at her out of the corner of his eye, imagining her sashaying across a polished ballroom floor, her long sequined gown brushing at her heels. “I’ve taken three years of tap and four of ballet back home.”

  That would explain her grace, Haven thought.

  “Yes, I’m sure several of you ladies already know how to dance,” Miss Nokomis agreed. “But it can’t hurt to practice what you’ve learned so we will be prepared for Saturday.”

  “Why should we learn?” Agnes pouted. “We’re not going.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to learn this year, so you will be well prepared next time you are invited to a dance.”

  Miss Nokomis placed a phonograph on the turntable and wound the crank. Placing the needle on the edge of the spinning disc, she turned and addressed the girls.

  “Pair up, ladies,” she called, clapping her hands together. “The first thing you need to learn is a basic waltz and you need a partner for that.”

  The girls rose, their shawls and afghans slipping from their shoulders and puddling on their chairs. Haven tossed another log on the fire; titian sparks erupted from the simmering coals. He placed the poker in its iron rack and meandered through the crowd toward the kitchen. “The Blue Danube” crackled over the heads of the girls as they reached for their partners, giggling and teasing one another on who would lead. Charlotte took Mabel by the hand and wrapped her fingers around her curvy waist. She was half a head taller than Mabel and had already decided she would lead. Haven turned away, wishing for all the world he could take Charlotte’s place.

  “I don’t have a partner!” Madeleine threw her hands up in the centre of the dance floor. Everyone else had already begun to dance.

  “That’s all right, dear.” Miss Nokomis stepped toward her and took her hand. She was so tall the top of Madeleine’s head barely reached her waist.” You can dance with me.”

  “You’re too big,” Madeleine complained.

  “What about Haven?” Mabel suggested as she eddied across the floor in Charlotte’s arms.

  Haven stopped short, his hand pressed to the kitchen door.

  “What about him?” Miss Nokomis asked.

  “He can dance with us,” Mabel said. “After all, he is sort of like a real boy.”

  She threw a wink at him from across the room and Haven’s heart bulged. There was a closet in back of his mind where only thoughts of Mabel could reside. Most of the time he kept the door tightly sealed, allowing himself only a peek through the keyhole during his many sleepless nights. This time, he threw the door open and all the dreams came rushing out.

  “Would you mind, Haven?” Miss Nokomis asked. She lifted the needle from the turntable and the girls abruptly stopped waltzing.

  “No, not at all,” Haven replied.

  “Dance with me, Haven.” Madeleine stood on tiptoes and held her hands out to him. Her eyes shone like dappled sunlight on the lake.

  “Take your positions please.” Miss Nokomis nudged Haven and placed his hand on Madeleine’s shoulder.

  He towered over her. Madeleine’s hand was so small it disappeared into the folds of his palm. Her hands were as soft as the velvet underside of a moth’s wing. Haven was embarrassed by his crimson dish-pan hands, roughened by weeks of kitchen drudgery. Though he longed for Mabel to be his partner, a part of him was relieved that she didn’t see the state of his hands.

  “Very good.” Miss Nokomis cranked the lever and the music resumed. “Now let’s try this again. This is a basic waltz. One step forward, one step to the side one step back, then back to the side again. Make a box.”

  Miss Nokomis waved an invisible baton as she chanted out instructions in time to the music.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . and make a box . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . and make a box . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . and make a box . . . ”

  Haven felt silly and awkward dancing with such a young girl. He had never really danced before and her small feet stumbled between his as they both struggled to synchronize their movements. The other girls around them flowed as effortlessly as skaters on a frozen pond. Mabel and Charlotte twirled together in a circle. He caught sight of Mabel as she turned; her lips puckered and she blew him a kiss across the room. He seized that moment in his heart.

  “Very good,” Miss Nokomis said when the music stopped. “Now let’s try it again. Haven, if you want to join us, you really must get your rhythm down. I’m surprised. An aspiring musician like yourself ought to have a better sense of rhythm.”

  “Maybe it’s because his partner is too short,” Mabel suggested. “He should dance with someone his own height.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Miss Nokomis said and Haven readily agreed.

  Mabel pulled away from Charlotte and wedged herself between Madeleine and Haven. Madeleine stumbled back, her lips screwed up into another pout.

  “Would you care to dance with me Haven?”

  Titters and snorts rose up from the other girls and were quickly squelched by Miss Nokomis. Haven cast a wary glance in her direction. He stepped back and hooked his chaffed hands behind his back.

  “I don’t really need to practice,” he said. “I’m not going to the dance.�
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  “But I need the practice,” Mabel turned toward Miss Nokomis. “Just one time, to make sure I get it right.”

  “Very well,” Miss Nokomis sighed. “Madeleine, you can dance with Charlotte this time.”

  Frowning, Madeleine clasped her hands into Charlotte’s and the music resumed with Miss Nokomis chanting out the beat and waving her invisible baton.

  With Mabel in his arms, Haven lost all sense of where he was and what he was doing. He was vaguely aware of his legs moving beneath him in time to the scratchy music that issued from the brass horn of the Victrola. Mabel took the lead, guiding him in a neat square across the floor. She smiled up at him as they danced. She smelled of summer rain and roses. He couldn’t pull his gaze away.

  “Haven, that’s enough!”

  Miss Nokomis’s voice snapped him back into consciousness. The song had ended and everyone stood around them, giggling into their hands. Another baritone laugh sailed over his head. Haven pulled away from Mabel.

  “You call that dancing?” Jude poked his head from between the flapping kitchen doors, grinning until his face appeared to split in two.

  “Yes, this is dancing,” Miss Nokomis huffed. “What would you call it, Mr. Jude?

  “I don’t know what you call it.” Jude pushed through the doors and regarded the makeshift dance floor with disgust. “But it sure ain’t dancing.”

  “And what exactly is your idea of dancing?”

  “A real dance makes you want to move,” Jude said and plucked Haven’s Jelly Roll Morton record from the pile on the floor. “This here is sissy stuff. Ain’t that right, Miss Charlotte?

  “I suppose so.” Charlotte stepped back. Miss Nokomis looked at her coolly.

  “You got to put a little more jive in your step if you want to dance proper.”

  Jude lifted “The Blue Danube” from the turntable with two fingers, as though the record was diseased, and slipped Jelly Roll Morton in its place.