The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “No.” Charlotte sighed and dragged her feet into the room, towing Marcus behind her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  She dropped into the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders sagging under some invisible burden. Everyone in the room gathered round her. Haven pulled a chair out from the table and sat backwards on it so he could look directly into her face. It was a posture that had always made Charlotte laugh and call him an urban bumpkin, whatever that was.

  “Is something wrong?” Jude inched toward her, pushing past the girls. Charlotte didn’t reply.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said. “I found her crying in the stable. She asked me to take her back here, but she won’t tell me why.”

  “What’s the matter Charlotte?” Haven asked. “Why did you leave the dance?”

  Charlotte lifted her face and looked at them. Her eyes were round and wide behind the glasses. Her cheeks were swollen and speckled with red blotches; she sniffed, wiping her nose with the heel of her hand.

  “Are you sad because no one would dance with you?” Madeleine asked, her eyes radiating such guilelessness it made Haven’s heart lurch.

  Charlotte stared back at Madeleine, her mouth arching into a genuine smile. She tossed her head back and spouted waves of maniacal laughter. Haven looked to Jude and Marcus, convinced she had gone daft before their very eyes.

  “I wish it was that simple.” Charlotte stroked the back of Madeleine’s head where the pigtails had come loose while she was dancing.

  “Haven and Jude would have danced with you if they were allowed to go,” Madeleine said and looked to them for support. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d dance with Charlotte all night long,” Jude replied.

  “Me too,” Haven added, “If we’d been invited.”

  “You wouldn’t want to go there.” Charlotte’s laughter subsided as quickly as it had erupted. “They would have torn you both to pieces.”

  “Who?” Haven asked.

  “The boys of Camp Hiawatha.”

  Haven straightened and leaned back, gripping the backrest so tightly his chapped fingertips whitened. Let them try, he thought. He’d relish the opportunity to scuffle with David.

  “I’d like to see them snobby, candy-assed boys try and lay a hand on me,” Jude said, tightening his jaw.

  “It don’t matter none, anyways,” Wetherby said. “We got our own party happening here. The punch and cookies is all gone now, but we still got plenty of jazz. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  “You got that right, Pa,” Jude agreed. “You’re better off here anyways, Charlotte. Them people just don’t get us. But that’s okay. We can party like they never can.”

  “You’re all very sweet.” Charlotte rose as though the movement required special effort. “But I’m tired. I think I’ll just be going to bed now.”

  “Don’t go yet,” Jude urged. “Stay a spell. We got a surprise for you.”

  “We do?” Haven asked.

  “Get your horn,” Jude said Haven. “You got your mouth organ, Marcus?”

  “Right here.” Marcus fished his harmonica from the breast pocket of his coat.

  “Then let’s play.”

  Madeleine and her friends pulled Charlotte toward the makeshift stage that Haven and Jude had set up by the Victrola. They sat her down in Miss Nokomis’s dining chair with the ornate eagles carved into the armrests and gathered around her, their eyes glowing with anticipation. Jude leaned forward, his guitar poised over his knee.

  “You know that song we been working on these past weeks?” Jude asked. Marcus, Haven and Wetherby nodded and lifted their instruments to their lips. “Play it, just like we practiced. I’ll take care of the words. And Haven . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Don’t forget to pat your foot.”

  Haven didn’t forget, and he would always remember for the rest of his life. Music erupted from their instruments, an odd ensemble of two trumpets, a homemade guitar and a harmonica. But to Haven’s ears, it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

  Jude began to sing:

  “I know a gal . . . her name is Charlotte . . . prettiest gal you ever did see . . . and if you ever met my sweet Charlotte . . . you’d know just what I mean . . . ”

  Charlotte gasped and covered her mouth with her slender fingers as Jude lapsed into the next verse:

  “My gal Charlotte . . . she can dance all night . . . and when I dance with my sweet Charlotte . . . I know everything’s gonna be all right . . . ”

  When Jude started to sing the chorus, Haven wanted to pull the trumpet from his mouth and join in. He’d never sung before and was eager to give it a try, but he was afraid his first attempt would come out as an embarrassing croak. He didn’t want to spoil it for Charlotte who was by now laughing and clapping in time to Jude’s guitar,

  “You make the sun shine Charlotte . . . you make dark skies blue . . . and if you ever met my sweet Charlotte . . . I know you’d think it’s true . . . I know you’d love her, too . . . ”

  Small hands slapped together like a swarm of butterflies around Charlotte. She sat speechless in the midst of it all. Haven was breathless, basking in the applause, wiping the mouthpiece of his trumpet in the hem of his shirt. Looking down at Charlotte’s expression, he decided Jude was absolutely right. She was sort of pretty in her own scrawny bespectacled way, a natural unpretentious beauty that Mabel could never match.

  When Charlotte regained her senses, she leapt toward them, laughing and blushing as she stretched her arms wide. She encased them in a tremendous hug. Haven was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of her embrace. Jude and Marcus each wrapped their arms around her and Wetherby, wheezing from the effort, squeezed them all together in his massive bear arms. His big body was surprisingly strong and felt like a well-used comfortable mattress.

  “Thank you!” Charlotte laughed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!”

  Someday I’ll record it, Haven thought, and you can keep it with you forever.

  CHAPTER 13

  SWEAT GLISTENED LIKE WARM OIL on Wetherby’s skin. It had been a late night for him. Miss Nokomis and the girls from camp hadn’t returned until well past midnight. He and Jude had to hustle the Puk-wudgies off to bed, amid whines and protests that they were not in the least bit sleepy, and tidy up the dining room before she suspected what had been going on. Afterwards, they sat out on the porch and listened to Haven and Marcus play “Am I Blue” under the moonlight while Charlotte fingered Sass’s clarinet. Cool dew had settled over the camp, further exacerbating the tightness in Wetherby’s lungs. He preferred to sit it out, leaning back in his wicker chair in a cloud of music and watching the young people sleepily wait for the lights of the barge to appear upon the dark water and glide back home.

  It had been a rough night for him. Morbid dreams that he was suffocating under mounds of mud, warm as phlegm, ricocheted around his skull until he jerked awake, gasping and wheezing. Jude and Haven rose at dawn and shuffled back to the lodge to start breakfast. Wetherby remained in bed, sluiced in sweat; no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t pull in enough air to fill his bloated lungs and quell his jammering heart. A cobweb drooped across the dusty windowpane and filtered the pearl-grey morning light. He distracted himself by watching a spindly spider scamper through the threads. It seemed as though everyone had important business to attend to but him.

  “You all right, Pa?” Jude poked his head through the door of their cabin.

  “I’m fine, Judy.” Wetherby found it difficult to speak without wheezing. He rubbed the sore spot in the centre of his chest and gulped in another mouthful of air.

  “You don’t look so good.” Jude stepped into the room, a tin pail swinging from one hand, a steaming mug in the other.

  “I’ll be right as rain in a while,” Wetherby replied. “I just need to rest a spell.”

  “I brought you some hot porridge.” Jude placed the pail on the bedside table and handed his f
ather the mug. “And some tea with honey, just the way you like it.”

  “You’re a good boy, Judy.” Wetherby lifted his head from the pillow and breathed in the fragrant fumes from the mug. There was a hint of lemon in the tea and it did seem to loosen his lungs just a little.

  “We ought to take you to a doctor, Pa.” Jude swabbed his father’s brow with the hem of his apron. “You ain’t ever been this bad before.”

  “I got you and Haven to care for me.” Wetherby smiled. “And that dear little gal, Charlotte. That’s all I need to feel better.”

  “Don’t be a hero, Pa.”

  “You sweet on her, ain’t you?” Wetherby sipped his tea and leaned back into the pillow.

  Jude pinched his lips together and looked down at the bed he shared with Haven. Blankets and sheets were twisted among the pillows.

  “After all you tell me about them rich white gals, you think I’m going to do something that dumb?” he said. “But you’re right, Pa. There’s a place in my heart where only she can live. If only things was different.”

  “It’s all right to dream,” Wetherby said. “’N’other week and the summer’s ended and we can be back on our way again.”

  Melancholy fluttered down his heart like a blanket at the thought of leaving Camp Nokomis. It had not only been their home for the summer but it was the one place, in all his travels, that Wetherby had felt he belonged. He was going to miss Eleanor and the girls, but mostly he was going to miss Haven. Since that June day when he first saw Haven sitting by the side of the road in a daze, he knew by instinct that Haven was destined to be a great jazzman, though it was obvious he had never heard jazz before in his life. But he harboured a hungry tiger in his belly, Wetherby could tell. Haven just needed to set it loose. Wetherby felt compelled to take him in and apprentice him in the fine points of jazz, just like he had done for Jude.

  “Where we gonna go?” Jude asked.

  “I hear there’s this place over yonder called Montreal,” Wetherby replied. “Where the ladies are sweet and the jazz be even sweeter.”

  Haven appeared in the doorway, wiping his wet hands in his apron. He looked at Wetherby warily and tipped his cap back as he spoke, concern tugging down the corners of his mouth.

  “They’re waiting for you.”

  “Is it that time already?” Wetherby asked.

  Haven nodded. He inched closer to Wetherby’s bed, crinkling his nose at the smell.

  “You don’t look like you feel up to it.”

  “Like I said to Judy, I’ll be fine,” Wetherby said and extended his hand to Haven. “Come here, boy, I want to tell you something.”

  Haven sank down onto the bed beside Wetherby. He gripped Haven’s hand and squeezed.

  “The girls ain’t never missed a reveille yet this summer,” he said. “And I ain’t about to let them down now.”

  “You should stay in bed,” Haven replied. “I’m sure Miss Nokomis will understand if you’re sick.”

  “No, that ain’t the point.” Wetherby shook his head and a series of coughs rattled his lungs. He hacked into his fist and waited for his breath to settle before continuing. “Them girls is depending on us. I want you to take this and play the reveille in my place this morning.”

  Wetherby reached over and pulled his trumpet out from under the bed.

  “Me?” Haven asked. “Why me?”

  “Because I can’t do it no more.” Wetherby tried to place the trumpet in Haven’s hand, but he backed away and wouldn’t take it. He looked to Jude for help, but Jude only shook his head and blinked at the floor.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can,” Wetherby replied. “I know you know ‘God Save the King’. It’s one of the first songs I taught you to play. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Then take my horn and go play it before Miss Nokomis starts to wonder what all the delay is about.”

  “Can’t I use my own?” Haven reluctantly accepted Wetherby’s trumpet.

  “No, use mine,” Wetherby said and stroked Haven’s hair back over his head. “You can be my breath.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Haven promised.

  “I’ll be right here listening.” Wetherby smiled and sank deeper into the pillow. “Now you boys run off and do what you gotta do.”

  “I don’t want to leave you, Pa,” Jude said.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll come right back after breakfast to tend to you.”

  Wetherby chuckled and closed his eyes. Jude and Haven were such good boys. He couldn’t have been blessed with better sons.

  “So why did you leave the dance so early last night?”

  Mabel’s voice was so sugary and full of feigned sentiment Charlotte wanted to smash her hairbrush across her stupid mouth. Mabel twirled around their cabin in her slip, holding her Sunday dress at arm’s length as though she was still at the dance. Charlotte sat on her bunk across from Margaret, yanking her brush through the knots in her hair and watching Mabel toss her dress aside before digging through her closet for another. Sunday mornings were less rushed. Church didn’t start until eleven in the morning and breakfast was usually served late, especially if it they had a late evening the night before. They had plenty of time to fix their hair and decide what to wear.

  “I had such a grand time!” Mabel continued without looking at them.

  “It sure looks like you and that David boy really hit it off,” Margaret said. She sat on the edge of her bunk, rolling her stockings up her legs.

  Charlotte snickered under her breath. She longed to tell someone about what she had seen in the barge, and more importantly, what had happened to her at the dance. But she was too ashamed, even for Mabel, whom she despised more and more each passing minute.

  “Him?” Mabel laughed. “He’s a nice enough fellow, but certainly not my type. We’ll probably never see each other again.”

  Charlotte stared at her, aghast at her apathy. How could she say that, especially after knowing how Haven felt about her?

  “He doesn’t seem to have very nice friends,” Charlotte said through tight lips.

  “What do you mean?” Again, that trumped-up innocence in her voice.

  “They made Charlotte cry,” Margaret said and slipped her feet into her shoes.

  “They did?”

  “They all pretended to fight over me when none of them really wanted to dance,” Charlotte said. “And they made fun of me because of my faith.”

  “They were mean,” Margaret agreed.

  “Oh, you silly girl!” Mabel laughed. “You shouldn’t pay any mind to them! They were just having some fun, you know, blowing off a little steam.”

  Charlotte couldn’t hold back any longer.

  “What about the boat?” she asked. “Was David blowing off a little steam then?”

  “What?”

  A lead weight descended upon the cabin and hung heavy in every corner of the room. Mabel and Charlotte stared at one another so coldly icicles could have formed between them.

  “What are you talking about?” Margaret asked.

  “Tell her,” Charlotte coaxed. “Tell Margaret what kind of a girl you really are.”

  Mabel giggled nervously and pulled her dress on over her shoulders. She turned her back to Margaret and adjusted her sash.

  “Be a dear and button me up, please, Margie,” she said.

  Margaret looked over Mabel’s shoulder at Charlotte while she hooked the buttons through the holes.

  “So what happened?”

  “We just went out and had a little fun, that’s all.” Mabel glared at Charlotte. “And it’s our little secret, right?”

  “Right.” Charlotte nodded. “After all, Haven would have loved to have been there so he could have . . . danced with you like that all night long.”

  “What does Haven have to do with anything?”

  “It’ll break his heart to find out you’ve been . . . dancing with other boys.”

  Charlotte
headed for the door. The others had already begun to gather round the flagpole for the morning reveille. The air was misty and cool, a sign that summer was on the wane. How long before they packed their bags and left for home? A week? Ten days? Charlotte couldn’t wait to get as far away from Mabel as soon as possible.

  Catching up to her, Mabel gripped Charlotte’s arm and squeezed.

  “Some secrets are best kept hidden,” Mabel hissed in her ear. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Don’t threaten me.”

  “Don’t you dare cross me,” Mabel warned. “You don’t know how far I’d go.”

  Charlotte laughed and shrugged out of Mabel’s vice-like grasp.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said and headed toward the clearing. “I’ve got a hungry tiger to keep me safe.”

  “What is she talking about?” Margaret asked as she drew up beside Mabel.

  “The girl’s gone daft.” Mabel shook her head and tapped her index finger between her eyes. “Don’t listen to anything she says. All that time spent tootling her clarinet with the jazz boys has made her soft in the head.”

  They stood around the clearing, Miss Nokomis erect and regal by the flagpole, and waited. And waited. And waited. Some of the younger girls shuffled restlessly around the fire pit; others began to giggle and gossip. Miss Nokomis glanced at her watch and then up at the lodge. Sighing, she dropped her arm and headed up the path just as Jude and Haven rounded the corner and strode toward the clearing, Wetherby’s trumpet in Haven’s hand. The girls fell silent at the sight of them. Charlotte smiled knowingly. She longed to encase Haven in her arms and tell him not to waste another drop of endearment on someone like Mabel. He was far too good for her.

  “Where’s Mr. Wetherby?” Miss Nokomis asked; they passed her as though she wasn’t there.

  “Ain’t feeling too good,” Jude replied. “Can’t blow his horn this morning. Haven’ll do it.”

  He paused in his usual spot, plucked his cap from his head and pressed it to his chest. Haven stopped by the flagstaff where Wetherby always stood and lifted the trumpet to his mouth. Miss Nokomis shrugged and looped her hand around the line. Haven began to play “God Save the King”, his eyes locked on the Union Jack as it jerked its way to the top. He sounded just like Wetherby. If Charlotte closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. She held her hand between her breasts and watched as a light breeze lifted the hair from Haven’s brow.