The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “Not till you choose who you want to dance with,” the blond laughed.

  “No one! I don’t want to dance anymore!”

  “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun!”

  “Don’t you like to have fun, Charlotte?” Billy snickered.

  All three boys puckered their lips and kissed the air around her. Tears blurred Charlotte’s already poor vision. She whirled around, searching desperately for a means of escape but all she could see were those sickly sounding lips sucking up the air around her, one pair with blond wiry hairs bristling from the top.

  “What’s going on over there?” Ted Brandish called from across the dance floor. The music had finished and a commercial for Pepsi blasted through the radio speakers. All couples had stopped dancing and were watching her.

  “Nothing!” Billy called back. “We were just asking this girl for a dance.”

  “Leave the young lady alone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three boys pulled away and sauntered back to their corner, laughing and slapping one another on the back as though they had just gotten away with a particularly complex prank. Billy pulled off his blazer and draped it over his shoulder like a peddler’s sack. The other couples turned away and headed back to their chairs or the buffet table, the spectacle just another chink in the evening.

  Finally free, Charlotte stood alone in the centre of the dance floor, tears dripping from her lashes. Margaret rushed up to her, dusting cake crumbs from her dress.

  “Are you all right?” she asked and Charlotte nodded. “I saw them. They were laughing at you while you were dancing with the first boy. They were taking bets on how long it would take to make you cry. The bastards.”

  Charlotte’s watery eyes widened. She had never heard such language come out of Margaret’s mouth before.

  “I need some air.” Charlotte turned and headed for the door, plucking her glasses from her bodice.

  “Want some company?”

  “No, I’d rather be alone.”

  The night air prickled Charlotte’s skin and cooled the tears on her cheeks as she stepped out of the lodge. It was a welcome relief to be free of the stuffiness and cacophony of the dance. The moon shone enough light on the path so that she could pick her way down to the dock, the light and din and of the dance fading behind her like a bad dream.

  Haven sat at the edge of the dock, his feet bare and his toes dipping in the cool water, dappling the slivers of moonlight that speckled the still black surface. Voices mingled with the music that drifted across the lake. If he squinted hard enough he could make out the shadowy figures of dancers cutting across the golden glowing windows of the lodge on the other side of the lake. He imagined Mabel sashaying across the dance floor in David’s arms — he was sure she would be dancing with David all night long — and the notion sent swords of animosity slicing through his heart. His only source of comfort was his trumpet. He lifted the mouthpiece to his lips and blew Wetherby’s “Walking Shoes Blues” through the horn, the lyrics skipping through his mind as he played: Baby’s got her walking shoes on . . .

  “Not bad.”

  Wetherby’s voice startled him. Haven jerked around and saw Wetherby standing at the end of the dock, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his trousers that fought a losing battle with gravity, even with his overstretched braces holding them up. His teeth gleamed like opals in the moonlight. When he approached, his weight rocked the dock on its foundation.

  “I’ve been practicing,” Haven said.

  “I can see that.” Wetherby nodded. “You still can’t play real jazz, though.”

  “It’s jazz.”

  “It ain’t jazz till you pat your foot,” Wetherby replied. “And you can’t pat your foot if it’s in the water.”

  Sighing, Haven heaved himself to his feet. He placed the trumpet to his mouth and blew again, his wet foot slapping the splintered wood to the rhythm of the song.

  “Better.” Wetherby nodded. “Much better. But I think it’s time to put down that horn for a while. You’d been starving the tiger long enough.”

  “I want to practice.”

  “There’s time enough for that,” Wetherby agreed. “But now I want you to come up to the lodge with me. It’s important.”

  “I don’t feel like it,” Haven replied and cast his gaze across the lake.

  “Trust me, you want to come and do this.”

  “No, I want to stay here.”

  “C’mon, boy.” Wetherby placed his hand on Haven’s shoulder and gently coaxed him to the end of the dock. “It’ll do you some good to see what’s going on up there.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They trudged up the path to the lodge, Haven’s wet feet collecting dirt and small bits of twigs and pebbles as he went. Wetherby opened the screen door and motioned Haven to enter. He followed after him.

  “Surprise!”

  Haven stopped short and almost dropped his trumpet. Confetti flurried down around him and scattered in his hair and on his shoulders.

  The centre table had been set with platters of sweets and biscuits that surrounded a sorry-looking, cracked punch bowl brimming with scarlet fluid. The Puk-wudgies, the four young girls not permitted to attend the dance, stood around in their pink fuzzy dressing gowns and tossed handfuls of confetti into the air. Jude stood grinning by the Victrola, cranking the lever; several phonograph records were piled at his feet, all jazz.

  “What’s going on?” Haven asked.

  “We’re going to have our own little dance party right here,” Jude said, lifting a record of Ethel Waters’ “Who Can Ask for Anything More” over his head.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “We ain’t kidding about something like that, right gals?” Jude said.

  The girls giggled, their small heads bobbing.

  “We figured since we ain’t been invited,” Wetherby added, “we can have our own fun right here.”

  “There’s cookies and fruit punch.” Jude pointed at the table. “And the best darn jazz to ever come out New Orleans. What ya say, gals? Are we gonna party tonight?”

  “Yes!” they squealed.

  “Let’s dance!” Madeleine added and skipped toward Haven.

  Haven stared down at her, speechless. She reached toward him, her small hands opening and closing on air. He didn’t know how to react. A bubble of mirth untied the tightness in his gut until it rose and tickled his heart. Madeleine’s pigtails wriggled on either side of her head and he felt an overwhelming sense of affection toward her — toward all of them, Wetherby and Jude included. He could think of only one way to respond. He threw his head back and laughed.

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night!” he said. The others joined in.

  “That’s the spirit.” Wetherby patted his shoulder.

  “Now remember, gals,” Jude said to the Puk-wudgies. “This is our little secret, right? If Miss Nokomis find out I lets y’all out of bed to dance jazz, she’d tan all our hides with a hickory switch.”

  “Now let’s get this party rolling!” Wetherby added and Jude dropped the needle on the spinning record.

  “Let’s dance, Maddie.” Haven clasped Madeleine against him and she melted like ice cream in July.

  Ethel Water’s voice filled the room. Jude and Haven each grabbed a girl and twirled them around. How could there ever be any troubles in the world when you’ve got jazz? Haven thought.

  Charlotte stood at the edge of the dock and listened to strands of jazz waft across the water. The moonlit ripples seemed to dance in time to the music. It was so much better than the stodgy ballroom waltz music, interspersed with inane ads for shaving soap and hair tonic that filled the lodge behind her. Jazz was wild, free; jazz held no distinctions between people; jazz knew nothing of the hierarchy of human society; jazz welcomed everyone with spirit and verve into its soul. She longed for Sass’s clarinet — her clarinet now. Jude had insisted she keep it even when she tried to r
eturn it to the kitchen the day after he had presented it to her. She had practiced every night with Haven and Jude and sometimes Wetherby if he was feeling well enough to blow his trumpet; sometimes even Marcus accompanied them on his harmonica if he could steal away from Camp Hiawatha for the evening. She stared across the water and wondered what was going on. No doubt Haven would be blowing his trumpet and Jude tapping his spoons across his thigh or strumming his box guitar.

  A light breeze blew the last of the tears from her eyes. She blinked and wiped her smudged glasses in the hem of her dress. She didn’t care what she looked like any more. She wasn’t going back to the dance. Turning to leave, she noticed the barge that had brought them to Camp Hiawatha bucking unnaturally against the dock. A whispered grunt echoed from under the canopy and the boat bounced again, pulling at the rope that tethered it to the dock. Mabel’s voice whispered something Charlotte couldn’t quite decipher and was cut short by another grunt.

  “Hello?” Charlotte called and leaned over the edge of the dock to peek into the barge. “Is someone in there?”

  Mabel lay supine across the centre bench with David nestled between her shapely upturned legs. One shoe had fallen off and rolled across the floor; the other teetered at the end of her big toe and threatened to drop off. The hem of her dress was hiked up past her hips and her discarded underwear hung from the handle of an oar that was propped up against the side of the boat. Her bodice was unbuttoned and one breast flopped from the top of her slip, the nipple pointing up like a small peanut. David squeezed the other breast like he was kneading a mound of raw dough. His pants were tangled around his knees, his bare buttocks jutting up like a pair of hirsute hills. They were both flushed, moaning and panting and staring into one another’s eyes as David’s hips smoothly thrust against Mabel.

  Charlotte’s first instinct was to turn and run, but her legs wobbled like they were filled with jelly. A hotness filled her cheeks and she gasped. What was Mabel doing? David and Mabel started at the sound. Mabel lifted her head and peered at Charlotte over David’s shoulder. David’s head swivelled round and they both stared at her, their breaths puffing out of them like steam from an engine. Charlotte had never felt so awkward in her life.

  “Hello . . . ” she stammered, wondering if this really was a proper time and place for formal introductions.

  “Scram, Charlotte,” Mabel said, “so we can finish what we started.”

  Charlotte felt an overwhelming need to apologize for the intrusion but her voice latched on the back of her tongue. She backed away from the boat until their figures melded into the darkness and the moans resumed. When she reached the end of the dock she turned and ran, her heartbeat ticking in her throat, her face glowing as though she had been doused with a cauldron of scalding water.

  She didn’t know where she was going. She just needed to get away. The whole world seemed to have turned over on its side. She’d heard about girls who did things like that with boys. They were called “fast” and “easy” and they had what others called a “reputation”. They were popular fodder for gossip though people were always kind and syrupy to them in public. They often got themselves into “trouble” and had to be discreetly sent away for several months. How could Mabel do such a thing? Especially after the way she behaved around Haven. The thought of Mabel groaning and bucking under Haven with her legs entwined around his back churned bitter vomit up her gullet. Haven had more pride and dignity than that.

  Cold leaves buckled around her as Charlotte pushed into the woods. The trees obscured the glow of the moon, leaving her to pick her way down the path in near darkness. She followed the scent of sweet hay and manure. The path led to the pasture where the horses grazed and exercised between riding lessons and where Marcus helped her and the other girls from Camp Nokomis saddle their mounts every Thursday afternoon. The stable crouched on the other side of the fence. The scent grew stronger as she neared, weeds and old crisp stalks of Queen Ann’s Lace crackling around her knees.

  Charlotte pushed the door open and entered the stable. A single light bulb dangled from a rafter on a crooked length of wire and provided the only illumination. The horses stood in their stalls and swung their heads to look at her, their manes swishing lightly against their long necks. The floorboards were so old and worn they had dissolved into the muddy ground below and had become a part of what was now a dirt floor. Her heels dug into the loam as she maundered from one stall to the next, stroking each soft snout. Several of the horses tossed their heads and nickered with pleasure under her touch.

  Buttercup, Charlotte’s favourite mare, whinnied when she saw her approach. Charlotte cupped her velvety nose and Buttercup flared her nostrils and blew her warm breath against Charlotte’s hand. She always brought a small treat for Buttercup every week and Charlotte knew she was expecting one now. She leaned her cheek against Buttercup’s snout, the spiky hairs prickling her skin, and leaked tears into the velvet.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t bring anything for you today.” Charlotte cried as though not having a sugar cube or slice of apple broke her heart.

  Buttercup swivelled her ears and lowered her head so that Charlotte could stroke the white star-shaped patch of fur between her eyes. Charlotte longed to slide onto Buttercup’s back and ride her as far away from Camp Hiawatha as they could possible go. Just the two of them.

  Charlotte leaned into Buttercup’s neck and listened to the muffled strains of a harmonica playing behind some closed door. Sniffing, she pushed her finger behind the lenses of her glasses to wipe away the last of her tears and wondered where the music could be coming from. She followed the sound to the rear of the stable. The last stall was vacant but the music was louder and clearer there. It was here that Marcus used to store the saddles and reins and whatever accoutrements the horses needed that he couldn’t find room for anywhere else. Charlotte opened the door and stepped in.

  Marcus sat on a bale of hay in the corner, his knees drawn up and his back against the wall. His cap was tipped down over his closed eyes; he slid the harmonica slowly across his lips, playing the song that Haven and Jude had been working on all summer.

  As though sensing her approach, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Charlotte?” he asked. “Is that you?”

  Charlotte, still too numb to speak, could only nod. Marcus heaved himself from the wall and squinted at her through the dim light. The hay crackled under his weight as he moved.

  “Aren’t you at the dance?”

  “I left.” Charlotte’s voice sounded foreign in her own ears.

  “Why?”

  Charlotte shook her head and stared down at the straw that had been tamped into the dirt floor.

  “Are you all right?” Marcus tilted her chin until she faced him. “Have you been crying?”

  “I want to go home.” Charlotte choked. “Please take me home.”

  Marcus frowned and pulled her close to him. He smelled of manure and fresh straw and saddle soap, just like Buttercup. She leaned her head into his shoulder and longed for him to play another song.

  Sweat trickled down Haven’s back and plastered his shirt against his skin. The dining room had grown increasingly hot during the course of the evening. Even with the oscillating fan whirring in the corner, Haven felt as though he was moving through warm cream soup. Several of the girls had peeled off their dressing gowns and were dancing in their nighties, which, Haven thought, looked much more flattering and free than the pale beige uniforms Miss Nokomis forced them to wear every day except Sundays. The punch bowl was almost empty save for a few slices of fruit swimming in a crimson puddle in the bottom; a scattering of brown crumbs was all that remained of the cookies.

  They had played every jazz record in Haven’s collection. Afterwards, at Madeleine’s urging, Haven and Wetherby got out their trumpets and blew every song they had practised together, while Jude plucked the strings of his guitar. Haven found it difficult to keep up with Wetherby; he knew Wetherby was slowing the pace for
him and he appreciated the gesture. He considered showing off for the girls — he’d noticed several of them, Madeleine included — gawking at him out of the corner of his eye; he wanted to give them something they could really be infatuated with. But he knew the minute he tried, Wetherby would blow all his efforts out of the water and it was a defeat he was not prepared to accede to, especially not in front of Madeleine.

  The girls sat in a semicircle around them, clapping in time to “Chimes Blues”, laughing and licking the last of the cookie crumbs from their fingers. Haven’s lips were numb from playing, a sensation he welcomed each time he put his trumpet to his mouth. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to lift him into a new place of consciousness; something Wetherby promised would happen if he only starved his tiger long enough. He heard several of the girls sigh and felt as though he had found his calling in life. He swerved his head to the side at the end of the last chorus, wishing the music would go on forever. He opened his eyes to accept the plaudits he knew would come.

  Charlotte and Marcus stood in the doorway watching them. Haven was so shocked, he thought that perhaps his imagination was playing tricks with him, that perhaps being so deep into the music had made him hallucinate. He lowered his trumpet and stared back; all heads in the room turned in their direction.

  “My goodness!” Wetherby said. “What are you two doing here?”

  Charlotte’s eyes scanned the dining room and finally settled on the girls who lowered their heads in postures of guilt. A shade of a smile quivered her lips.

  “I should ask these girls the same thing,” Charlotte said. “What’s going on around here?”

  “Nothing . . . ” Madeleine drawled and looked up at Jude for help.

  “Looks like there’s a party going on here,” Marcus said.

  “You girls should be in bed,” Charlotte replied. “What if Miss Nokomis caught you out here in your nightgowns like this?”

  “But Jude said we could have our own party.” Kathleen pointed at Jude who grinned sheepishly back at Charlotte.

  “You ain’t going to tell her are you?” Jude asked.