The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “You girls want to learn to really dance?” he asked as he cranked the arm.

  Heads nodded and arms nudged one another. Charlotte pulled her glasses from her face and placed them on a table.

  “And what sort of dance are you going to teach us?” Miss Nokomis sniffed.

  “This here is called the Lindy Hop.”

  Jude yanked Charlotte’s arm so hard Haven though it would pop out of its socket. The music began, a song he had played so many times it was a wonder the needle hadn’t cut clean through the groove. “Kansas City Stomps” burst through the air, the horns and piano notes smoothly spilling like cool water from a fountain. Jude cupped Charlotte in his arms and they danced, their legs kicking up in jerky movements, their hips swaying in time to one another. They cut such a wide berth, the girls stepped back to allow them more room on the dance floor. Haven watched with his jaw sagging. It had never occurred to him that you could dance to jazz. The girls were enraptured. Even Miss Nokomis bobbed her chin to the beat of the music.

  When the music ended, Jude snatched Charlotte up by the waist and held her over his head for a second before he wobbled under her weight and set her back on the floor. She landed hard on her feet, her arms wheeling for balance. Grinning, Charlotte turned and, crossing her bony knees, bowed before the audience that had exploded into raucous applause. Haven clapped so hard his palms stung. Mabel didn’t applaud. She skulked back from the crowd, her lips stitched down into a tight seam.

  “Now that’s dancing!” Jude was breathless, but the exhilaration on his face made it clear that he would be happy to do it all over again.

  “That’s very impressive, Mr. Jude,” Miss Nokomis said. “But I’m afraid it’s not the sort of thing proper young ladies should be indulging in.”

  “Teach us to dance like that!” Madeleine begged.

  “Yes! Please!” the other girls collectively pleaded.

  “Not now,” Miss Nokomis said. “You will have plenty of time to learn those kinds of dances when you’re older. The gentlemen of Camp Hiawatha have invited us to a proper dance where there is no place for such a thing.”

  “I agree,” Mabel added through a tightened jaw. “We should learn to waltz.”

  Groans of disappointment followed Charlotte to the table. Mabel handed Charlotte her glasses. They slipped from her hand as Charlotte reached for them and clattered to the floor.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mabel gasped with feigned sincerity. “I hope I didn’t break them.”

  “I don’t think they’re broken.” Charlotte scooped them from the floor and examined the frames and the hinges.

  “Please try to be more careful,” Miss Nokomis implored.

  She pulled the record from the turntable and handed it to Jude.

  “Now if you two gentlemen will excuse us, we must practice our waltz,” she said. “I’m sure there is plenty of work for you to do in the kitchen.”

  Haven followed Jude into the kitchen just as the first bars of “The Blue Danube” began again. Charlotte turned and offered to dance with Miss Nokomis while Mabel cast poisoned needles at her back with her eyes. Even with her obvious chagrin, Haven savoured her touch, still cooling against his skin.

  The barge was so festooned with garlands and clusters of pink and white carnations it was a wonder it didn’t sink into the lake. A red and white striped canopy covered its entire length, leaving just enough space for Haven to see a boy his age sitting at the bow, strumming a ukulele. He wore a pale grey suit and a straw hat dipped low over his brow so that his eyes were covered in shadow. A row of oars dipped in the water in unison. All the boys rowing were dressed immaculately in suits and hats and humming some nonsensical song to the ukulele. Haven counted eight of them altogether. A bloated tangerine sun, draped in lacy clouds, reflected the lake’s calm surface and stung Haven’s eyes, but he would rather go blind than miss this. He squinted as he watched the barge slowly glide toward the dock where Miss Nokomis stood waiting, dressed in her Sunday gown of faded yellow and green flowers. The girls of Camp Nokomis stood back from the shore, all dressed up in satin and lace and high-heeled shoes that sank into the spongy mud.

  Miss Nokomis waved to the barge, bangles clattering around her wrist. The boy with the ukulele hopped from the boat, dragging a heavy rope behind him. He threaded it through the iron hoop at the end of the dock before approaching Miss Nokomis. The oarsmen pulled their paddles from the lake and fumbled around under their seats. They found a heavy oak board and heaved it over the edge where it bridged the narrow space between the barge and the dock.

  “Miss Nokomis,” the boy with the ukulele bowed politely. “My name is David Jennings. I would like to extend an invitation to the ladies of Camp Nokomis to accompany us to Camp Hiawatha for an evening of refreshments and entertainment.”

  He plucked the white carnation that served as a boutonnière from the lapel of his suit and handed it to her. Miss Nokomis, smiling, accepted the bloom and dipped her head reverently.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jennings,” she said. “The ladies and I would be honoured to be your guests this evening.”

  The girls behind her twittered like nervous birds. Two of the boys from the boat crossed over to the dock, their arms laden with small bouquets of pink and white carnations secured with pale blue ribbons.

  Margaret was the first to board the boat, followed by Charlotte and Mabel, taking small jerky steps in their high-heeled shoes. Mabel looked glorious. Haven couldn’t pull his eyes away from her. She wore a wispy chiffon dress of cornflower blue, the same shade as her eyes. Her hair was curled in loose ringlets that bobbed under the brim of her white straw hat. She wore gloves and carried a small clutch purse adorned with blue sequins. A tightness seized Haven’s throat when one of the other boys passed a bouquet over to Charlotte. She bashfully clutched the flowers to her bosom and averted her eyes as she took the boy’s hand and gingerly crossed over into the barge.

  “Well, hello there!” David’s voice rose when he saw Mabel approach, her hand already extended to accept the flowers. He looked at Mabel as though she was a fresh slice of sweet strawberry cake. Haven was momentarily seized with the urge to smash David’s stupid ukulele across his gleaming clean-shaven face.

  “Hello,” Mabel said in a singsong voice usually reserved only for Haven.

  David snatched a bouquet from one of the other boys and handed it to her. She turned, looking directly at Haven. He didn’t know how to respond, if he should smile or wave or just stand on the porch and watch, feeling ugly and dishevelled in his stained kitchen whites and his greasy hair and his dishpan hands with the broken nails. Mabel lifted the corsage toward her face and inhaled deeply, smiling, her round cheeks pink as the carnations clustered under her chin. She turned away. David extended his hand and personally escorted her across the gangplank to the boat where Margaret and Charlotte had already settled into their seats.

  Haven had had enough. The queue of girls behind Mabel followed her into the boat, each clasping their corsages in their hands or pinning them to the bodices of their dresses. But Haven couldn’t watch. A hotness rose from somewhere in the depths of his gut; he could feel it sizzling in his face, steaming the sweat that collected in the creases of his brow and the back of his neck.

  The screen door slammed so hard he heard something splinter in the frame. He couldn’t care less. He stomped into the dining room, incensed that Mabel would speak to that stranger in such a tone. What was so wonderful about him, anyway? He may be rich and clean but that’s all. If I could find a place to have a proper shower and a shave I could look just like him, Haven thought, maybe even better. If I had the money for a descent suit she would never have to look at him again. And does he know jazz? Can he blow a trumpet like me? No! Any moron can play a ukulele. That’s a baby’s toy. And what about the flowers? Mabel likes flowers. Fine. I could do that. I could pluck every withered rose from Bess’s garden and dump the lot at her feet if that’s what she wants.

  Haven stopped short. W
etherby and Jude sat a table with cups of coffee and a deck of playing cards fanned out in their hands. They stared up at him, curiosity creasing their brows.

  “What’s this about flowers?” Jude asked.

  “What?” Haven hadn’t realized he had said his thoughts aloud.

  “You all right?” Wetherby asked. “You look a might agitated.”

  “I’m fine!”

  Haven stamped into the kitchen. He needed a cold glass of water to steady his quivering nerves. And his trumpet. He needed jazz.

  “Want to play some hearts with me and Pa?” Jude called.

  “Not in the mood!”

  “Now what’s up with him?” Jude asked and placed a card down on the table.

  Wetherby chuckled and leaned back in his chair until his belly rolled up toward his chest. He scanned the cards in his hand and played his move.

  “Looks like the tiger’s getting hungry.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE MAIN LODGE AT CAMP Hiawatha was larger than the one at Camp Nokomis. Dining tables had been pushed aside and stacked against a far wall and cloaked with a wide lace tablecloth. The chairs were queued against the walls, encircling the dance floor. Dance music spurted from the radio, a massive RCA model of polished mahogany and a dial that glowed amber in the dim ballroom. Balloons clustered in each corner of the ceiling; twisted garlands of tissue paper drooped between them and billowed whenever a couple danced past. A buffet table had been erected against the wall opposite the radio and sagged under the weight of a massive crystal punch bowl and platters of sandwiches and cake.

  Charlotte sat next to Margaret and watched the couples waltz across the floor, holding one another stiffly at arm’s length and taking slow jerky steps as though they wore braces on their legs. It was only after much goading from Miss Nokomis and Ted Brandish, the leader of Camp Hiawatha, that they had been persuaded to choose a partner and dance before the announcer on the radio extolled the virtues of a hair oil called Brylcreem and they would be forced to dance to the jingle “ . . . a little dab will do ya”. Charlotte leaned her head against the wall behind her. No one had asked either her or Margaret to dance, not even after she removed her glasses and tucked them into her cleavage — there was a lot of room down there — hoping she could fake her way through the evening without squinting. So far it hadn’t been that bad. She could make out the figures on the dance floor and see the moonlight that streamed like a spotlight through the windows. She crossed her legs and balanced her cup of punch and a paper plate with a yellow cube of sponge cake, untouched, on her knee. She considered hiking up the hem of her dress to entice an invitation, but she knew Miss Nokomis was observing everyone’s behaviour with a jaundiced eye. Besides, she reasoned, her legs were too skinny to make a boy do anything but laugh.

  Mabel had danced every dance that evening with David. At first their movements had been as shy and reserved as the other couples, but as the evening wore on they danced closer and closer until Mabel leaned her head into David’s shoulder. They spoke to one another in closed whispers, their noses almost touching. At one point, Miss Nokomis interrupted and pried them apart, issuing a stern warning to them both. Between dances David loitered with the same group of boys who had rowed them across the lake in the barge. Mabel joined them; she was the centre of their attention. They fawned over her like she was the Queen of Sheba, laughing and chattering and pointing at the other couples on the floor. As soon as the announcer finished expounding on the merits of the show’s sponsors, David and Mabel swooped back onto the dance floor like a pair of doves in flight.

  “We’re going out to get some air,” Mabel panted after the song ended. She had pulled away from David to go talk to them. His tie had come loose during the evening and there was a rosy flush to his cheeks.

  “So?” Margaret sniffed and crossed her legs.

  “If Miss Nokomis or Mr. Brandish asks, tell them we went to use the outhouse,” Mabel said.

  “Together?” Charlotte chuckled.

  “Don’t be a wise ass,” Mabel warned.

  “We’ll tell them,” Margaret agreed. “But don’t be too long. We can’t cover for you all night.”

  Grinning, Mabel snatched David by the hand and led him toward the door. Miss Nokomis’s back was turned; she was leaning over the buffet table, stuffing olives and egg salad sandwiches in her mouth. Mr. Brandish stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, scanning the room like a sergeant taking stock of his troops, but he failed to notice them slip out into the night.

  The next song began and the couples dragged their feet back onto the dance floor. A boy broke away from the David’s clique and threaded his way between the couples toward Charlotte. Margaret straightened and prodded Charlotte with her elbow.

  “May I have this dance?” The boy bowed and extended his hand. He had a round face splattered with freckles the same auburn shade as his slicked-back hair. Charlotte stiffened. She had almost given up the fact that she would dance with anyone that night, let alone someone so handsome and august. Her voice lodged in her throat.

  “Go on.” Margaret nudged her again and took her cup and plate. “I’ll hold on to this for you.”

  Charlotte slipped her hand into his before she realized what she was doing. She rose and allowed herself to be lead to the centre of the floor. The boy’s hand was warm and clammy with sweat. He folded his fingers over hers and cupped his other hand over her hip, right where the bone tented the fabric of her dress. Charlotte stared down at their feet, afraid to look him in the eye.

  “So what’s your name, sweetheart?” he teased as they slowly swirled in time to the music.

  “Charlotte,” she mumbled and looked over to the buffet table, hoping to find something fascinating happening there.

  “Charlotte.” The boy grinned. He looked over her shoulder to his clique of friends and winked at them. “I’m Billy Peters. I think I’ve seen you around riding the horses every week.”

  “You have,” Charlotte agreed.

  “Do you like to ride?”

  “Yes, I love riding the horses.” Charlotte mustered the courage to look up into his face. He looked even more handsome up close.

  “You’ve been going to camp every year?”

  “Since I was ten,” Charlotte replied, wondering where the conversation was headed. He seemed to ask a lot of questions.

  “You like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Ann Arbor.”

  “A Yankee gal!” Billy laughed with a fake southern drawl.

  A stout blonde boy with the fuzzy prelude to a burgeoning moustache clouding his upper lip broke away from his cohorts and approached them, his square jaw jutting out in indignation. He shoved Billy aside and stepped between them, smiling stiffly down at Charlotte.

  “Mind if I cut in?” he asked.

  “As long as I get her back,” Billy replied.

  Charlotte looked from Billy to the blond boy, unsure of how to respond. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.

  “I can’t guarantee that,” the blond said without taking his eyes away from Charlotte.

  Billy backed away, his gaze fixed on them both. Charlotte nervously clasped the boy’s hand and resumed dancing. Given the choice, she much preferred to dance with Billy. He was taller and his movements smoother. There was something malicious about the blond she didn’t trust.

  “Stay away from him,” he warned. “That guy’s bad news. He’ll break your heart.”

  “I think I can handle myself,” Charlotte replied. “But thanks for the warning.”

  “So you a Jewess?”

  “What?” Charlotte gasped and stepped away from him, dropping his hand as though it burned. It was the last thing she expected anyone to ask her.

  “That’s enough!” Billy pushed his way between them and shoved the blond’s shoulder hard enough for him to stumble back on his heels. “It’s my turn to dance with her now.”

  “We haven’t
finished, have we, sweetheart?” the blond snickered in Billy’s face.

  Charlotte’s heart danced wildly in her throat. I’m not your sweetheart, she thought. Hot blooms seared her cheekbones. The two boys stood nose to nose, their hands balled into fists at their sides.

  “I don’t know . . . ” Charlotte stammered.

  “You’d rather dance with me, wouldn’t you?” Billy demanded.

  Charlotte wanted to say yes, but feared what the two would do to each other if she replied. She became aware of several pairs of eyes hovering around them.

  “No, you’d rather dance with me.” The blond pulled away from Billy and grabbed Charlotte’s hand. Charlotte snatched it away and hid it behind the small of her back.

  “See, she doesn’t want to dance with you,” Billy sneered and picked up Charlotte’s free hand. “You’d rather have me, wouldn’t you?”

  The blond grabbed Billy’s shoulder and jerked him back.

  “You want to take this outside?”

  “Let’s go!”

  “I think I’d better go sit down.” Sharp tears bloomed in back of her eyes. Something clogged her throat so that she could barely speak.

  Charlotte turned abruptly and crashed into the chest of another boy from the rower’s clique. He was so tall he towered over her by a head. He smiled down at her as he stepped forward, nudging her back until she stood pressed against Billy.

  “Excuse me . . . ” Charlotte tried to step past him, but he slid to the side and blocked her passage.

  “You’d rather dance with me, wouldn’t you?” the tall boy said.

  “No, thank you!”

  “Come on sweetheart.” Billy pressed closer against her back. “You have to choose someone.”

  All three crowded around Charlotte until she found herself wedged in a triangle. She felt like a trapped mouse; there was no room between them to escape. Panic rose up her throat and diffused the tears that collected in her eyes.

  “Let me go!” she pleaded.